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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 











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Copyright 1893 
By Eugene Field 



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DEDICATED, 
WITH LOVE AND GRATITUDE, 

TO 

ROSWELL MARTIN FIELD. 



CONTENTS. 

Page 

I. The Holy Cross 13 

II. The Rose and the Thrush ... 36 

III. The Seal-Wife 50 

IV. Flail, Trask, and Bisland ... 84 
V. The Touch in the Heart .... 96 

VI. Daniel and the Devil 114 

VII. Methuselah 131 

VIII. Felice and Petit-Poulain ... 148 

IX. The River 161 

X. Franz Abt . 166 

XI. Mistress Merciless 173 



I. 



THE HOLY CROSS. 




HILST the noble Don 
Esclevador and his little 
band of venturesome 
followers explored the 
neighboring fastnesses 
in quest for gold, the 
Father Miguel tarried 
at the shrine which in 
sweet piety they had hewn out of the stub- 
born rock in that strangely desolate spot. 
Here, upon that serene August morning, the 
holy Father held communion with the saints, 
beseeching them, in all humility, to intercede 
with our beloved Mother for the safe guid- 
ance of the fugitive Cortes to his native 
shores, and for the divine protection of the 
little host, which, separated from the Spanish 



14 THE HOLY CROSS, 

army, had wandered leagues to the north- 
ward, and had sought refuge in the noble 
mountains of an unknown land. The Father's 
devotions were, upon a sudden, interrupted 
by the approach of an aged man who toiled 
along the mountain-side path, — a man so 
aged and so bowed and so feeble that he 
seemed to have been brought down into that 
place, by means of some necromantic art, 
out of distant centuries. His face was yel- 
low and wrinkled like ancient parchment, 
and a beard whiter than Samite streamed 
upon his breast, whilst about his withered 
body and shrunken legs hung faded raiment 
which the elements had corroded and the 
thorns had grievously rent. And as he toiled 
along, the aged man continually groaned, 
and continually wrung his palsied hands, as 
if a sorrow, no lighter than his years, 
afflicted him. 

" In whose name comest thou ? " demanded 
the Father Miguel, advancing a space toward 
the stranger, but not in threatening wise ; 
whereat the aged man stopped in his course 



THE HOLY CROSS. 15 

and lifted his eyebrows, and regarded the 
Father a goodly time, but he spake no 
word. 

" In whose name comest thou ? " repeated 
the priestly man. " Upon these mountains 
have we lifted up the cross of our blessed 
Lord in the name of our sovereign liege, 
and here have we set down a tabernacle to 
the glory of the Virgin and of her ever- 
blessed son, our Redeemer and thine, — 
whoso thou mayest be ! " 

"Who is thy king I know not," quoth 
the aged man, feebly ; " but the shrine in 
yonder wall of rock I know ; and by that 
symbol which I see therein, and by thy faith 
for which it stands, I conjure thee, as thou 
lovest both, give me somewhat to eat and to 
drink, that betimes I may go upon my way 
again, for the journey before me is a long 
one." 

These words spake the old man in tones 
of such exceeding sadness that the Father 
Miguel, touched by compassion, hastened 
to meet the wayfarer, and, with his arms 



1 6 THE HOLY CROSS. 

about him, and with whisperings of sweet 
comfort, to conduct him to a resting-place. 
Coarse food in goodly plenty was at hand ; 
and it happily fortuned, too, that there was 
a homely wine, made by Pietro del y Sagu- 
ache himself, of the wild grapes in which 
a neighboring valley abounded. Of these 
things anon the old man partook, greedily 
but silently, and all that while he rolled his 
eyes upon the shrine; and then at last, 
struggling to his feet, he made as if to go 
upon his way. 

"Nay," interposed the Father Miguel, 
kindly ; " abide with us a season. Thou 
art an old man and sorely spent. Such as 
we have thou shalt have, and if thy soul be 
distressed, we shall pour upon it the healing 
balm of our blessed faith." 

" Little knowest thou whereof thou speak- 
est," quoth the old man, sadly. " There is 
no balm can avail me. I prithee let me go 
hence, ere knowing what manner of man I 
am thou hatest me and do evil unto me." 
But as he said these words he fell back 



THE HOLY CROSS. 17 

again even then into the seat where he had 
sat, and, as through fatigue, his hoary head 
drooped upon his bosom. 

" Thou art ill ! " cried the Father Miguel, 
hastening to his side. " Thou shalt go no 
farther this day ! Give me thy staff," — and 
he plucked it from him. 

Then said the old man : "As I am now, 
so have I been these many hundred years. 
Thou hast heard tell of me, — canst thou not 
guess my name; canst thou not read my 
sorrow in my face and in my bosom? As 
thou art good and holy through thy faith in 
that symbol in yonder shrine, hearken to 
me, for I will tell thee of the wretch whom 
thou hast succored. Then, if it be thy will, 
give me thy curse and send me on my 
way." 

Much marvelled the Father Miguel at 
these words, and he deemed the old man 
to be mad; but he made no answer. And 
presently the old man, bowing his head 
upon his hands, had to say in this wise : — 

" Upon a time," he quoth, " I abided in 
2 



1 8 THE HOLY CROSS. 

the city of the Great King, — there was I 
born and there I abided. I was of good 
stature, and I asked favor of none. I was 
an artisan, and many came to my shop, and 
my cunning was sought of many, — for I was 
exceeding crafty in my trade ; and so, there- 
fore, speedily my pride begot an insolence 
that had respect to none at all. And once I 
heard a tumult in the street, as of the cries 
of men and boys commingled, and the clash- 
ing of arms and staves. Seeking to know 
the cause thereof, I saw that one was being 
driven to execution, — one that had said he 
was the Son of God and the King of the 
Jews, for which blasphemy and crime 
against our people he was to die upon the 
cross. Overcome by the weight of this cross, 
which he bore upon his shoulders, the victim 
tottered in the street and swayed this way 
and that, as though each moment he were 
like to fall, and he groaned in sore agony. 
Meanwhile about him pressed a multitude 
that with vast clamor railed at him and 
scoffed him and smote him, to whom he 



THE HOLY CROSS. 19 

paid no heed ; but in his agony his eyes 
were alway uplifted to heaven, and his lips 
moved in prayer for them that so shame- 
fully entreated him. And as he went his 
way to Calvary, it fortuned that he fell and 
lay beneath the cross right at my very door, 
whereupon, turning his eyes upon me as I 
stood over against him, he begged me that 
for a little moment I should bear up the 
weight of the cross whilst that he wiped the 
sweat from off his brow. But I was filled 
with hatred, and I spurned him with my foot, 
and I said to him : ' Move on, thou wretched 
criminal, move on. Pollute not my door- 
way with thy touch, — move on to death, I 
command thee ! ' This was the answer I 
gave to him, but no succor at all. Then 
he spake to me once again, and he said : 
' Thou, too, shalt move on, O Jew ! Thou 
shalt move on forever, but not to death ! ' 
And with these words he bore up the cross 
again and went upon his way to Calvary. 

" Then of a sudden," quoth the old man, 
" a horror filled my breast, and a resistless 



20 THE HOLY CROSS. 

terror possessed me. So was I accursed for- 
evermore. A voice kept saying always to 
me : ' Move on, O Jew ! move on forever ! ' 
From home, from kin, from country, from all 
I knew and loved I fled ; nowhere could I 
tarry, — the nameless horror burned in my 
bosom, and I heard continually a voice cry- 
ing unto me : ' Move on, O Jew ! move on 
forever ! ' So, with the years, the centuries, 
the ages, I have fled before that cry and in 
that nameless horror ; empires have risen and 
crumbled, races have been born and are 
extinct, mountains have been cast up and 
time hath levelled them, — still I do live and 
still I wander hither and thither upon the 
face of the earth, and am an accursed thing. 
The gift of tongues is mine, — all men I 
know, yet mankind knows me not. Death 
meets me face to face, and passes me by; 
the sea devours all other prey, but will not 
hide me in its depths ; wild beasts flee from 
me, and pestilences turn their consuming 
breaths elsewhere. On and on and on I go, 
— not to a home, nor to my people, nor to my 



THE HOLY CROSS. 21 

grave, but evermore into the tortures of an 
eternity of sorrow. And evermore I feel the 
nameless horror burn within, whilst evermore 
I see the pleading eyes of him that bore the 
cross, and evermore I hear his voice crying : 
' Move on, O Jew ! move on forevermore ! ' " 

" Thou art the Wandering Jew ! " cried the 
Father Miguel. 

" I am he," saith the aged man. " I mar- 
vel not that thou dost revolt against me, for 
thou standest in the shadow of that same 
cross which I have spurned, and thou art 
illumined with the love of him that went his 
way to Calvary. But I beseech thee bear 
with me until I have told thee all, — then 
drive me hence if thou art so minded." 

" Speak on," quoth the Father Miguel. 

Then said the Jew : " How came I here I 
scarcely know; the seasons are one to me, 
and one day but as another ; for the span of 
my life, O priestly man ! is eternity. This 
much know you : from a far country I em- 
barked upon a ship, — I knew not whence 
't was bound, nor cared I. I obeyed the voice 



22 THE HOLY CROSS. 

that bade me go. Anon a mighty tempest 
fell upon the ship and overwhelmed it. The 
cruel sea brought peace to all but me ; a 
many days it tossed and buffeted me, then 
with a cry of exultation cast me at last upon 
a shore I had not seen before, a coast far, 
far westward whereon abides no human 
thing. But in that solitude still heard I 
from within the awful mandate that sent 
me journeying onward, 'Move on, O Jew! 
move on ; ' and into vast forests I plunged, 
and mighty plains I traversed ; onward, on- 
ward, onward I went, with the nameless 
horror in my bosom, and — that cry, that 
awful cry ! The rains beat upon me ; the sun 
wrought pitilessly with me ; the thickets tore 
my flesh ; and the inhospitable shores bruised 
my weary feet, — yet onward I went, pluck- 
ing what food I might from thorny bushes to 
stay my hunger, and allaying my feverish 
thirst at pools where reptiles crawled. Some- 
times a monster beast stood in my pathway 
and threatened to devour me ; then would I 
spread my two arms thus, and welcome death, 



THE HOLY CROSS. 23 

crying : ' Rend thou this Jew in twain, O 
beast ! strike thy kindly fangs deep into this 
heart, — be not afeard, for I shall make no 
battle with thee, nor any outcry whatsoever ! ' 
But, lo, the beast would cower before me and 
skulk away. So there is no death for me; 
the judgment spoken is irrevocable ; my sin 
is unpardonable, and the voice will not be 
hushed ! " 

Thus and so much spake the Jew, bowing 
his hoary head upon his hands. Then was 
the Father Miguel vastly troubled ; yet he re- 
coiled not from the Jew, — nay, he took the 
old man by the hand and sought to soothe 
him. 

" Thy sin was most heinous, O Jew ! " quoth 
the Father; "but it falleth in our blessed 
faith to know that whoso repenteth of his 
sin, what it soever may be, the same shall 
surely be forgiven. Thy punishment hath 
already been severe, and God is merciful, for 
even as we are all his children, even so his 
tenderness to us is like unto the tenderness 
of a father unto his child — yea, and infl- 



24 THE HOLY CROSS. 

nitely tenderer and sweeter, for who can 
estimate the love of our heavenly Father? 
Thou didst deny thy succor to the Nazarene 
when he besought it, yet so great compassion 
hath he that if thou but call est upon him he 
shall forget thy wrong, — leastwise will par- 
don it. Therefore be thou persuaded by 
me, and tarry here this night, that in the 
presence of yonder symbol and the holy 
relics our prayers may go up with thine unto 
our blessed Mother and to the saints who 
happily shall intercede for thee in Paradise. 
Rest here, O sufferer, — rest thee here, and 
we shall presently give thee great comfort." 
The Jew, well-nigh fainting with fatigue, 
being persuaded by the holy Father's gentle 
words, gave finally his consent unto this 
thing, and went anon unto the cave beyond 
the shrine, and entered thereinto, and lay 
upon a bed of skins and furs, and made as if 
to sleep. And when he slept his sleep was 
seemingly disturbed by visions, and he tossed 
as doth an one that sees full evil things, and 
in that sleep he muttered somewhat of a 



THE HOLY CROSS. 25 

voice he seemed to hear, though round about 
there was no sound whatsoever, save only 
the soft music of the pine-trees on the moun- 
tain-side. Meanwhile in the shrine, hewn 
out of those rocks, did the Father Miguel 
bow before the sacred symbol of his faith 
and plead for mercy for that same Jew that 
slumbered anear. And when, as the deepen- 
ing blue mantle of night fell upon the hill- 
tops and obscured the valleys round about, 
Don Esclevador and his sturdy men came 
clamoring along the mountain-side, the holy 
Father met them a way off and bade them 
have regard to the aged man that slept in 
yonder cave. But when he told them of that 
Jew and of his misery and of the secret 
causes thereof, out spake the noble Don 
Esclevador, full hotly, — 

" By our sweet Christ," he cried, " shall 
we not offend our blessed faith and do most 
impiously in the Virgin's sight if we give this 
harbor and this succor unto so vile a sinner 
as this Jew that hath denied our dear 
Lord ! " 



26 THE HOLY CROSS. 

Which words had like to wrought great 
evil with the Jew, for instantly the other men 
sprang forward as if to awaken the Jew and 
drive him forth into the night. But the 
Father Miguel stretched forth his hands and 
commanded them to do no evil unto the Jew, 
and so persuasively did he set forth the god- 
liness and the sweetness of compassion that 
presently the whole company was moved with 
a gentle pity toward that Jew. Therefore it 
befell anon, when night came down from the 
skies and after they had feasted upon their 
homely food as was their wont, that they 
talked of the Jew, and thinking of their own 
hardships and misfortunes (whereof it is not 
now to speak), they had all the more compas- 
sion to that Jew, which spake them passing 
fair, I ween. 

Now all this while lay the Jew upon the 
bed of skins and furs within the cave, and 
though he slept (for he was exceeding weary), 
he tossed continually from side to side, and 
spoke things in his sleep, as if his heart were 
sorely troubled, and as if in his dreams he 



THE HOLY CROSS. 27 

beheld grievous things. And seeing the old 
man, and hearing his broken speech, the 
others moved softly hither and thither and 
made no noise soever lest they should 
awaken him. And many an one — yes, all 
that valiant company bowed down that night 
before the symbol in the shrine, and with 
sweet reverence called upon our blessed 
Virgin to plead in the cause of that wretched 
Jew. Then sleep came to all, and in dreams 
the noble Don Esclevador saw his sovereign 
liege, and kneeled before his throne, and 
heard his sovereign liege's gracious voice; 
in dreams the heartweary soldier sailed the 
blue waters of the Spanish main, and pressed 
his native shore, and beheld once again the 
lovelight in the dark eyes of her that awaited 
him ; in dreams the mountain-pines were 
kissed of the singing winds, and murmured 
drowsily and tossed their arms as do little 
children that dream of their play ; in dreams 
the Jew swayed hither and thither, scourged 
by that nameless horror in his bosom, and 
seeing the pleading eyes of our dying Master, 



28 THE HOLY CROSS. 

and hearing that awful mandate : " Move on, 
O Jew ! move on forever ! " So each slept 
and dreamed his dreams, — all slept but the 
Father Miguel, who alone throughout the 
night kneeled in the shrine and called unto 
the saints and unto our Mother Mary in 
prayer. And his supplication was for that 
Jew ; and the mists fell upon that place and 
compassed it about, and it was as if the 
heavens had reached down their lips to kiss 
the holy shrine. And suddenly there came 
unto the Jew a quiet as of death, so that he 
tossed no more in his sleep and spake no 
word, but lay exceeding still, smiling in his 
sleep as one who sees his home in dreams, 
or his mother, or some other such beloved 
thing. 

It came to pass that early in the morning 
the Jew came from the cavern to go upon 
his way, and the Father Miguel besought 
him to take with him a goodly loaf in his 
wallet as wise provision against hunger. 
But the Jew denied this, and then he said : 
" Last night while I slept methought I stood 



THE HOLY CROSS. 29 

once more in the city of the Great King, — 
aye, in that very doorway where I stood, 
swart and lusty, when I spurned him that 
went his way to Calvary. In my bosom 
burned the terror as of old, and my soul 
was consumed of a mighty anguish. None 
of those that passed in that street knew me ; 
centuries had ground to dust all my kin. 
' O God ! ' I cried in agony, * suffer my sin 
to be forgotten, — suffer me to sleep, to 
sleep forever beneath the burden of the 
cross I some time spurned ! ' As I spake 
these words there stood before me one in 
shining raiment, and lo ! 'twas he who bore 
the cross to Calvary! His eyes that had 
pleaded to me on a time now fell compas- 
sionately upon me, and the voice that had 
commanded me move on forever, now broke 
full sweetly on my ears : ' Thou shalt go 
on no more, O Jew, but as thou hast asked, 
so shall it be, and thou shalt sleep forever 
beneath the cross.' Then fell I into a deep 
slumber, and, therefrom but just now awak- 
ing, I feel within me what peace bespeaketh 



30 THE HOLY CROSS, 



pardon for my sin. This day am I ran- 
somed ; so suffer me to go my way, holy 
man." 

So went the Jew upon his way, not groan- 
ingly and in toilsomewise, as was his wont, 
but eagerly, as goeth one to meet his bride, 
or unto some sweet reward. And the Father 
Miguel stood long, looking after him and 
being sorely troubled in mind ; for he knew 
not what interpretation he should make of 
all these things. And anon the Jew was 
lost to sight in the forest. 

But once, a little space thereafter, while 
that Jose Conejos, the Castilian, clambered 
up the yonder mountain-side, he saw amid 
the grasses there the dead and withered 
body of an aged man, and thereupon forth- 
with made he such clamor that Don Escleva- 
dor hastened thither and saw it was the Jew ; 
and since there was no sign that wild beasts 
had wrought evil with him, it was declared 
that the Jew had died of age and fatigue 
and sorrow, albeit on the wrinkled face 
there was a smile of peace that none had 



THE HOLY CROSS. 3 1 

seen thereon while yet the Jew lived. And 
it was accounted to be a most wondrous 
thing that, whereas never before had flowers 
of that kind been seen in those mountains, 
there now bloomed all round about flowers 
of the dye of blood, which thing the noble 
Don Esclevador took full wisely to be a 
symbol of our dear Lord's most precious 
blood, whereby not only you and me but 
even the Jew shall be redeemed to Paradise. 

Within the spot where they had found the 
Jew they buried him, and there he sleeps 
unto this very day. Above the grave the 
Father Miguel said a prayer ; and the ground 
of that mountain they adjudged to be holy 
ground ; but over the grave wherein lay the 
Jew they set up neither cross nor symbol of 
any kind, fearing to offend their holy faith. 

But that very night, when that they were 
returned unto their camp half a league dis- 
tant, there arose a mighty tempest, and there 
was such an upheaval and rending of the 
earth as only God's hand could make ; and 
there was a crashing and a groaning as if 



32 THE HOLY CROSS. 

the world were smitten in twain, and the 
winds fled through the valleys in dismay, 
and the trees of the forest shrieked in terror 
and fell upon their faces. Then in the 
morning when the tempest ceased and all 
the sky was calm and radiant they saw that 
an impassable chasm lay between them and 
that mountain-side wherein the Jew slept 
the sleep of death; that God had traced 
with his finger a mighty gulf about that 
holy ground which held the bones of the 
transgressor. Between heaven and earth 
hung that lonely grave, nor could any foot 
scale the precipice that guarded it ; but one 
might see that the spot was beautiful with 
kindly mountain verdure and that flowers 
of blood-red dye bloomed in that lonely 
place. 

This was the happening in a summer-time 
a many years ago ; to the mellow grace of 
that summer succeeded the purple glory of 
the autumn, and then came on apace the 
hoary dignity of winter. But the earth hath 
its resurrection too, and anon came the beau- 



THE HOLY CROSS. 33 

teous spring-time with warmth and scents 
and new life. The brooks leapt forth once 
more from their hiding-places, the verdure 
awaked, and the trees put forth their foliage. 
Then from the awful mountain peaks the 
snow silently and slowly slipped to the val- 
leys, and in divers natural channels went 
onward and ever downward to the southern 
sea, and now at last 'twas summer-time 
again and the mellow grace of August 
brooded over the earth. But in that yonder 
mountain-side had fallen a symbol never to 
be removed, — aye, upon that holy ground 
where slept the Jew was stretched a cross, a 
mighty cross of snow on which the sun never 
fell and which no breath of wind ever dis- 
turbed. Elsewhere was the tender warmth 
of verdure and the sacred passion of the 
blood-red flowers, but over that lonely grave 
was stretched the symbol of him that went 
his way to Calvary, and in that grave slept 
the Jew. 

Mightily marvelled Don Esclevador and 
his warrior host at this thing ; but the Father 

3 



34 THE HOLY CROSS. 

Miguel knew its meaning; for he was 
minded of that vision wherein it was foretold 
unto the Jew that, pardoned for his sin, he 
should sleep forever under the burden of 
the cross he spurned. All this the Father 
Miguel showed unto Don Esclevador and 
the others, and he said : " I deem that unto 
all ages this holy symbol shall bear witness 
of our dear Christ's mercy and compassion. 
Though we, O exiled brothers, sleep in this 
foreign land in graves which none shall 
know, upon that mountain height beyond 
shall stretch the eternal witness to our faith 
and to our Redeemer's love, minding all that 
look thereon, not of the pains and the punish- 
ments of the Jew, but of the exceeding 
mercy of our blessed Lord, and of the certain 
eternal peace that cometh through his love ! " 
How long ago these things whereof I 
speak befell, I shall not say. They never 
saw — that Spanish host — they never saw 
their native land, their sovereign liege, their 
loved ones' faces again ; they sleep, and they 
are dust among those mighty mountains in 



THE HOLY CROSS. 35 

the West. Where is the grave of the Father 
Miguel, or of Don Esclevador, or of any of 
the valiant Spanish exiles, it is not to tell ; 
God only knoweth, and the saints : all sleep 
in the faith, and their reward is certain. 
But where sleepeth the Jew all may see 
and know ; for on that awful mountain-side, 
in a spot inaccessible to man, lieth the holy 
cross of snow. The winds pass lightly over 
that solemn tomb, and never a sunbeam 
lingereth there. White and majestic it lies 
where God's hands have placed it, and its 
mighty arms stretch forth as in a benediction 
upon the fleeting dust beneath. 

So shall it bide forever upon that mountain- 
side, and the memory of the Jew and of all 
else human shall fade away and be forgotten 
in the surpassing glory of the love and the 
compassion of him that bore the redeeming 
burden to Calvary. 



II. 



THE ROSE AND THE THRUSH. 




HERE was none in 
the quiet valley so 
happy as the rose-tree, 
— none so happy unless 
perchance it was the 
thrush who made his 
home in the linden 
yonder. The thrush 
loved the rose-tree's daughter, and he was 
happy in thinking that some day she would 
be his bride. Now the rose-tree had many 
daughters, and each was beautiful ; but the 
rose whom the thrush loved was more beauti- 
ful than her sisters, and all the wooers came 
wooing her until at last the fair creature's 
head was turned, and the rose grew capri- 
cious and disdainful. Among her many 



THE ROSE AND THE THRUSH. 37 

lovers were the south wind and the fairy 
Dewlove and the little elf-prince Beam- 
bright and the hoptoad, whom all the rest 
called Mr. Roughbrown. The hoptoad lived 
in the stone-wall several yards away; but 
every morning and evening he made a 
journey to the rose-tree, and there he would 
sit for hours gazing with tender longings at 
the beautiful rose, and murmuring impas- 
sioned avowals, The rose's disdain did not 
chill the hoptoad's ardor. " See what I have 
brought you, fair rose," he would say. " A 
beautiful brown beetle with golden wings and 
green eyes ! Surely there is not in all the 
world a more delicious morsel than a brown 
beetle ! Or, if you but say the word, I will 
fetch you a tender little fly, or a young gnat, 
— see, I am willing to undergo all toils and 
dangers for your own sweet sake." 

Poor Mr. Roughbrown ! His wooing was 
very hopeless. And all the time he courted 
the imperious rose, who should be peeping at 
him from her home in the hedge but as 
plump and as sleek a little Miss Dormouse 



3 8 THE ROSE AND THE THRUSH. 

as ever you saw, and her eyes were full of 
envy. 

" If Mr. Roughbrown had any sense," she 
said to herself, " he would waste no time on 
that vain and frivolous rose. He is far too 
good a catch for her" 

The south wind was forever sighing and 
sobbing about. He lives, you know, very 
many miles from here. His home is beyond a 
great sea ; in the midst of a vast desert there 
is an oasis, and it is among the palm-trees 
and the flowers of this oasis that the south 
wind abides. When spring calls from the 
North, " O south wind, where are you ? 
Come hither, my sunny friend ! " the south 
wind leaps from his couch in the far-off oasis, 
and hastens whither the spring-time calls. As 
he speeds across the sea the mermaids seek 
to tangle him in their tresses, and the waves 
try to twine their white arms about him ; but 
he shakes them off and laughingly flies upon 
his way. Wheresoever he goes he is be- 
loved. With their soft, solemn music the 
pine-trees seek to detain him ; the flowers of 



THE ROSE AND THE THRUSH. 39 

earth lift up their voices and cry, " Abide 
with us, dear spirit," — but to all he answers : 
" The spring-time calls me in the North, and 
I must hasten whither she calls." But when 
the south wind came to the rose-tree he 
would go no farther ; he loved the rose, and 
he lingered about her with singing and 
sighing and protestations. 

It was not until late in the evening that 
Dewlove and the elf-prince appeared. Just 
as the moon rolled up in the horizon and 
poured a broad streak of silver through the 
lake the three crickets went " Chirp-chirp, 
chirp-chirp, chirp-chirp," and then out danced 
Dewlove and Beambright from their hiding- 
places. The cunning little fairy lived under 
the moss at the foot of the oak-tree ; he was 
no bigger than a cambric needle, — but he 
had two eyes, and in this respect he had 
quite the advantage of the needle. As for 
the elf-prince, his home was in the tiny, dark 
subterranean passage which the mole used 
to live in ; he was plump as a cupid, and his 
hair was long and curly, although if you 



40 THE ROSE AND THE THRUSH. 

force me to it I must tell you that the elf- 
prince was really no larger than your little 
finger, — so you will see that so far as 
physical proportions were concerned Dew- 
love and Beambright were pretty well 
matched. Merry, merry fellows they were, 
and I should certainly fail most lamentably 
did I attempt to tell you how prettily they 
danced upon the greensward of the meadow- 
lands throughout the summer nights. Some- 
times the other fairies and elves joined them, 
— delicate little lady fairies with gossamer 
wings, and chubby little lady elves clad in 
filmy spider webs, — and they danced and 
danced and danced, while the three crickets 
went " Chirp-chirp, chirp-chirp, chirp-chirp," 
all night long. Now it was very strange — 
was it not ? — that instead of loving one of 
these delicate little lady fairies, or one of 
these chubby little lady elves, both Dewlove 
and Beambright loved the rose. Yet, she 
was indeed very beautiful. 

The thrush did not pester the rose with his 
protestations of love. He was not a partic- 



THE ROSE AND THE THRUSH. 4* 

ularly proud fellow, but he thought too much 
of the rose to vex her with his pleadings. 
But all day long he would perch in the 
thicket and sing his songs as only a thrush 
can sing to the beautiful rose he loves. He 
sung, we will say, of the forests he had 
explored, of the famous river he had once 
seen, of the dew which the rose loved, of the 
storm-king that slew the old pine and made 
his cones into a crown, — he sung of a 
thousand things which we might not under- 
stand, but which pleased the rose because 
she understood them. And one day the 
thrush swooped down from the linden upon 
a monstrous devil's darning-needle that came 
spinning along and poised himself to stab 
the beautiful rose. Yes, like lightning the 
thrush swooped down on this murderous 
monster, and he bit him in two, and I am 
glad of it, and so are you if your heart be 
not wholly callous. 

" How comes it," said the rose-tree to the 
thrush that day, — " how comes it that you 
do not woo my daughter? You have 



42 THE ROSE AND THE THRUSH. 

shown that you love her ; why not speak to 
her? " 

"No, I will wait," answered the thrush. 
" She has many wooers, and each wooes her 
in his own way. Let me show her by my 
devotion that I am worthy of her, and then 
perchance she will listen kindly to me when 
I speak to her." 

The rose-tree thought very strange of this ; 
in all her experience of bringing out her fair 
daughters into society she had never had to 
deal with so curious a lover as the thrush. 
She made up her mind to speak for him. 

" My daughter," said she to the rose, " the 
thrush loves you ; of all your wooers he is 
the most constant and the most amiable. I 
pray that you will hear kindly to his suit." 

The rose laughed carelessly, — yes, mer- 
rily, — as if she heeded not the heartache 
which her indifference might cause the 
honest thrush. 

" Mother," said the rose, " these suitors 
are pestering me beyond all endurance. How 
can I have any patience with the south wind, 



THE ROSE AND THE THRUSH. 43 

who is forever importuning me with his sen- 
timental sighs and melancholy wheezing ? 
And as for that old hoptoad, Mr. Rough- 
brown, — why, it is a husband I want, not a 
father!" 

" Prince Beambright pleases you, then ? " 
asked the rose-tree. 

" He is a merry, capering fellow," said the 
daughter, " and so is his friend Dewlove ; 
but I do not fancy either. And as for the 
thrush who sends you to speak for him, — 
why, he is quite out of the question, I assure 
you. The truth is, mother, that I am to fill 
a higher station than that of bride to any of 
these simple rustic folk. Am I not more 
beautiful than any of my companions, and 
have I not ambitions above all others of my 
kind ? " 

" Whom have you seen that you talk so 
vain-gloriously ? " cried the rose-tree, in 
alarm. " What flattery has instilled into you 
this fatal poison ? " 

" Have you not seen the poet who comes 
this way every morning ? " asked the rose. 



44 THE ROSE AND THE THRUSH. 

" His face is noble, and he sings grandly to 
the pictures Nature spreads before his eyes. 
I should be his bride. Some day he will see 
me ; he will bear me away upon his bosom ; 
he will indite to me a poem that shall live 
forever ! " 

These words the thrush heard, and his 
heart sank within him. If his songs that day 
were not so merry as usual it was because 
of the words that the rose had spoken. Yet 
the thrush sang on, and his song was full of 
his honest love. 

It was the next morning that the poet 
came that way. He lived in the city, but 
each day he strolled away from the noise 
and crowd of the city to commune with him- 
self and with Nature in the quiet valley 
where bloomed the rose-tree, where the 
thrush sung, and where dwelt the fays and 
the elves of whom it has been spoken. The 
sun shone fiercely ; withal the quiet valley 
was cool, and the poet bared his brow to the 
breeze that swept down the quiet valley from 
the lake over yonder. 



THE ROSE AND THE THRUSH. 45 

" The south wind loves the rose ! Aha, 
aha, foolish brother to love the rose ! " 

This was what the breeze said, and the 
poet heard it. Then his eyes fell upon the 
rose-tree and upon her blooming daughters. 

" The hoptoad loves the rose ! Foolish old 
Roughbrown to love the rose, aha, ha ! " 

There was a malicious squeakiness in this 
utterance, — of course it came from that 
envious Miss Dormouse, who was forever 
peeping out of her habitation in the hedge. 

" What a beautiful rose ! " cried the poet, 
and leaping over the old stone-wall he 
plucked the rose from the mother-tree, — 
yes, the poet bore away this very rose who 
had hoped to be the poet's bride. 

Then the rose-tree wept bitterly, and so 
did her other daughters; the south wind 
wailed, and the old hoptoad gave three 
croaks so dolorous that if you had heard 
them you would have said that his heart was 
truly broken. All were sad, — all but the 
envious dormouse, who chuckled maliciously, 
and said it was no more than they deserved. 



46 THE ROSE AND THE THRUSH. 

The thrush saw the poet bearing the rose 
away, yet how could the fluttering little 
creature hope to prevail against the cruel 
invader ? What could he do but twitter in 
anguish ? So there are tragedies and heart- 
aches in lives that are not human. 

As the poet returned to the city he wore 
the rose upon his breast. The rose was 
happy, for the poet spoke to her now and 
then, and praised her loveliness, and she saw 
that her beauty had given him an inspiration. 

"The rose despised my brother! Aha, 
aha, foolish rose, — but she shall wither ! " 

It was the breeze that spake ; far away 
from the lake in the quiet valley its voice 
was very low, but the rose heard and 
trembled. 

" It 's a lie," cried the rose. " I shall not 
die. The poet loves me, and I shall live 
forever upon his bosom." 

Yet a singular faintness — a faintness 
never felt before — came upon the rose ; 
she bent her head and sighed. The heat — 
that was all — was very oppressive, and here 



THE ROSE AND THE THRUSH. 47 

at the entrance to the city the tumult aroused 
an aggravating dust. The poet seemed sud- 
denly to forget the rose. A carriage was 
approaching, and from the carriage leaned a 
lady, who beckoned to the poet. The lady 
was very fair, and the poet hastened to 
answer her call. And as he hastened the 
rose fell from his bosom into the hot high- 
way, and the poet paid no heed. Ascending 
into the carriage with the lady (I am sure 
she must have been a princess ! ) the poet 
was whirled away, and there in the stifling 
dust lay the fainting rose, all stained and 
dying. 

The sparrows flew down and pecked at 
her inquisitively ; the cruel wagons crushed 
her beneath their iron wheels ; careless feet 
buffeted her hither and thither. She was no 
longer a beautiful rose ; no, nor even a 
reminiscence of one, — simply a colorless, 
scentless, ill-shapen mass. 

But all at once she heard a familiar voice, 
and then she saw familiar eyes. The voice 
was tender and the eyes were kindly. 

" O honest thrush," cried the rose, " is it 



48 THE ROSE AND THE THRUSH. 

you who have come to reproach me for my 
folly ? " 

" No, no, dear rose," said the thrush, 
"how should I speak ill to you? Come, 
rest your poor head upon my breast, and let 
me bear you home." 

" Let me rather die here," sighed the rose, 
'.' for it was here that my folly brought me. 
How could I go back with you whom I 
never so much as smiled upon? And do 
they not hate and deride me in the valley, — 
I would rather die here in misery than there 
in shame ! " 

" Poor, broken flower, they love you," 
urged the thrush. " They grieve for you ; 
let me bear you back where the mother-tree 
will shade you, and where the south wind 
will nurse you — for — for he loves you." 

So the thrush bore back the withering 
rose to her home in the quiet valley. 

" So she has come back, has she," sneered 
the dormouse. "Well, she has impudence, 
if nothing else!" 

" She was pretty once," said the old hop- 
toad ; " but she lost her opportunity when I 



THE ROSE AND THE THRUSH. 49 

made up my mind to go wooing a certain 
glossy damsel in the hedge." 

The rose-tree reached out her motherly 
arms to welcome her dying daughter, and 
she said : " Rest here, dear one, and let me 
rock you to repose." 

It was evening in the quiet valley now. 
Where was the south wind that he came not 
with his wooing ? He had flown to the 
North, for that day he had heard the spring- 
time's voice a-calling, and he went in answer 
to its summons. Everything was still. 
" Chirp-chirp, chirp-chirp, chirp-chirp," piped 
the three crickets, and forthwith the fairy 
boy and the elf-prince danced from their 
habitations. Their little feet tinkled over 
the clover and the daisies. 

" Hush, little folk," cried the rose-tree. 
"Do not dance to-night, — the rose is dying." 

But they danced on. The rose did not 
hear them ; she heard only the voice of the 
thrush, who perched in the linden yonder, 
and, with a breaking heart, sung to the 
dying flower. 

4 



III. 



THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE. 1 




T is to tell of Harold, 
the son of Egbert, the 
son of lb; comely was 
he to look upon, and a 
braver than he lived not 
in these islands, nor one 
more beloved of all peo- 
ple. But it chanced 
upon a time, while he was still in early man- 
hood, that a grievous sorrow befell him ; for 
on a day his mother Eleanor came to her end 
in this full evil wise : It was her intent to go 
unto the neighboring island, where grazed 
the goats and the kine, and it fortuned that, 
as she made her way thither in the boat, she 
heard sweet music, as if one played upon a 

1 Orkney Folk-Lore. 



THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE, 5 1 

harp in the waters, and, looking over the side 
of the boat, she beheld down in the waters 
a sea-maiden making those exceeding pleas- 
ant sounds. And the sea-maiden ceased to 
play, and smiled up at Eleanor, and stretched 
up her hands and besought Eleanor to pluck 
her from the sea into the boat, which seek- 
ing to do, Eleanor fell headlong into the 
waters, and was never thereafter seen either 
alive or dead by any of her kin, Now under 
this passing heavy grief Egbert, the son of 
lb, being old and spent by toil, brake down, 
and on a night died, making with his latest 
breath most heavy lamentation for Eleanor, 
his wife ; so died he, and his soul sped, as 
they tell, to that far northern land where the 
souls of the departed make merry all the 
night, which merriment sendeth forth so vast 
and so beautiful a light that all the heavens 
are illumined thereby. But Harold, the son of 
Egbert and of Eleanor, was left alone, hav- 
ing neither brother, nor sister, nor any of kin, 
save an uncle abiding many leagues distant 
in Jutland. Thereupon befell a wonderful 



52 THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE. 

thing ; if it had not happened it would not 
be told. 

It chanced that, on a certain evening in 
the summer-time, Harold walked alone where 
a Druid circle lay coiled like a dark serpent 
on a hillside ; his heart was filled with dolor, 
for he thought continually of Eleanor, his 
mother, and he wept softly to himself through 
love of that dear mother. While thus he 
walked in vast heaviness of soul, he was 
beheld of Membril, the fairy that with her 
goodly subjects dwelt in the ruin of the 
Pict's house hard by the Druid circle. And 
Membril had compassion upon Harold, and 
upon the exceeding fine down of a tiny sea- 
bird she rode out to meet him, and it was 
before his eyes as if a star shined out of a 
mist in his pathway. So it was that Membril 
the fairy made herself known to him, and 
having so done, she said and she sung : 

" I am Membril, queen of Fay, 
That would charm thy grief away ! 
Thou art like the little bark 
Drifting in the cold and dark, — 



THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE. 53 

Drifting through the tempest's roar 

To a rocky, icy shore ; 

All the torment dost thou feel 

Of the spent and fearful seal 

Wounded by the hunter's steel. 

I am Membril, — hark to me : 

Better times await on thee ! 

Wouldst thou clasp thy mother dear, — 

Strange things see and stranger hear ? 

Straight betake thee to thy boat 

And to yonder haven float, — 

Go thy way, and silent be, — 

It is Membril counsels thee ; 

Go thy way, and thou shalt see ! " 

Great marvel had Harold to this thing; 
nevertheless he did the bidding of Membril 
the fairy, and it was full wisely done. And 
presently he came to where his boat lay, half 
on the shore and half in the waters, and he 
unloosed the thong that held it, and entered 
into the boat; but he put neither hand to 
the oars thereof, for he was intent to do the 
bidding of Membril the fairy. Then as if 
of its own accord, or as if the kindly waves 
themselves bore it along, the boat moved 



54 THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE. 

upon the waters and turned toward the 
yonder haven whereof it was said and sung. 
Fair shone the moon, and the night was 
passing fair ; the shadows fell from the hill- 
tops in their sleep and lay, as they had been 
little weary children, in the valleys and upon 
the shore, and they were rocked in the 
cradles of those valleys, and the waters along 
the shore sung softly to them. Upon the 
one side lay the island where grazed the 
goats and the kine, and upon the other side 
lay the island where Harold and other people 
abode ; between these islands crept the sea 
with its gentle murmurings, and upon this 
sea drifted the boat bearing Harold to the 
yonder haven. Now the haven whereunto 
the course lay brooded almost beneath the 
shadow of the S tennis stones, and the waters 
thereof were dark, as if, forsooth, the sea 
frowned whensoever it saw those bloody 
stones peering down into its tranquil bosom. 
And some said that the place was haunted, 
and that upon each seventh night came 
thereunto the spirits of them that had been 



THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE. 55 

slain upon those stones, and waved their 
ghostly arms and wailed grievously ; but of 
latter times none believeth this thing to be 
true. 

It befell that, coming into the haven and 
bearing toward the shore thereof, Harold 
was ware of sweet music, and presently he 
saw figures as of men and women dancing 
upon the holm ; but neither could he see who 
these people were, nor could he tell where- 
from the music came But such fair music 
never had he heard before, and with great 
marvel he came from the boat into the clus- 
ter of beech-trees that stood between the 
haven and that holm where the people 
danced, Then of a sudden Harold saw 
twelve skins lying upon the shore in the 
moonlight ; and they were the comeliest and 
most precious sealskins that ever he saw, 
and he coveted them. So presently he took 
up one of the sealskins and bore it with him 
into his boat, and pushed the boat from the 
shore into the waters of the haven again, 
and, so doing, there was such plashing of 



56 THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE. 

the waters that those people dancing upon 
the fair green holm became ware of Harold's 
presence, and were afeared, so that, ceasing 
from their sport, they made haste down to 
the shore and did on the skins and dived 
into the waters with shrill cries. But there 
was one of them that could not do so, 
because Harold bore off that skin where- 
with she was wont to begird herself, and 
when she found it not she wailed and wept 
and besought Harold to give her that skin 
again, — and, lo ! it was Eleanor, the wife 
of Egbert ! Now when Harold saw that it 
was his mother that so entreated him he was 
filled with wonder, and he drew nearer the 
shore to regard her and to hear her words, 
for he loved her passing well. But he de- 
nied her that skin, knowing full well that so 
soon as she possessed it she would leave 
him and he should never again behold her. 
Then Eleanor related to him how that she 
had been drowned in the sea through treach- 
ery of the harp-maiden, and how that the 
souls of drowned people entered into the 



THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE. 57 

bodies of seals, nor were permitted to return 
to earth, save only one night in every month, 
at which time each recovered his human 
shape and was suffered to dance in the 
moonlight upon the fair green holm from 
the hour of sunset unto the hour of sunrise. 

" Give me the skin, I pray thee," she cried, 
" for if the sun came upon me unawares I 
should crumble into dust before thine eyes, 
and that moment would a curse fall upon 
you. I am happy as I am; the sea and 
those who dwell therein are good to me, — 
give me the skin, I beseech thee, that I 
may return whence I came, and thereby 
shall a great blessing accrue to thee and 
thine." 

But Harold said : "Nay, mother, I were a 
fool to part so cheerfully with one whom I 
love dearer than life itself ! I shall not let 
you go so easily ; you shall come with me to 
our home, where I have lived alone too long 
already. I shall be alone no longer, — come 
with me, I say, for I shall not deliver up this 
skin, nor shall any force wrest it from me ! " 



58 THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE. 

Then Eleanor, his mother, reasoned a 
space with him, and anon she showed him 
the folly of his way; but still he hung his 
head upon his breast and was loth to do her 
bidding, until at last she sware unto him 
that if he gave to her that skin he should, 
upon the next dancing night, have to wife 
the most beautiful maiden in the world, and 
therefore should be alone in the world no 
more. To this presently Harold gave as- 
sent, and then Eleanor, his mother, bade 
him come to that same spot one month 
hence, and do what she should then bid 
him do. Receiving, therefore, the skin from 
him, she folded it about her and threw her- 
self into the sea, and Harold betook himself 
unto his home. 

Now wit ye well that full wearily dragged 
the days and the nights until that month was 
spent ; but now at last it was the month of 
August, and upon the night of the seventh 
day thereof ended the season of waiting. It 
is to tell that upon that night came Harold, 
the son of Egbert, from his hut, and stood 



THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE. 59 

on the threshold thereof, and awaited the 
rising of the moon from out the silver waters 
yonder. While thus he stood there appeared 
unto him Membril the fairy, and smiling upon 
him she said and she sung : — 

" I am Membril, queen of Fay, 
Come to urge thee on thy way ; 
Haste to yonder haven-side 
Where awaits thy promised bride ; 
Daughter of a king is she, — 
Many leagues she comes to thee, 
Thine and only thine to be. 
Haste and see, then come again 
To thy pretty home, and, when 
Smiles the sun on earth once more, 
Will come knocking at thy door; 
Open then, and to thy breast 
Clasp whom thou shalt love the best ! 
It is Membril counsels thee, — 
Haste and see what thou shalt see ! " 

Now by this thing was Harold mightily 
rejoiced, and he believed it to be truth that 
great good was in store for him ; for he had 
seen pleasant things in the candle a many 
nights, and the smoke from his fire blew 



60 THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE, 

cheerily and lightly to the westward, and a 
swan had circled over his house that day 
week, and in his net each day for twice 
seven days had he drawn from the sea a fish 
having one golden eye and one silver eye : 
which things, as all men know, portend full 
goodly things, or else they portend nothing at 
all whatsoever. So, being pleasantly minded, 
Harold returned in kind unto Membril, the 
fairy queen, that bespoke him so courteously, 
and to her and to them that bore her 
company he said and he sung : — 

" Welcome, bonnie queen of Fay ! 

For thou speakest pleasing words ; 
Thou shalt have a gill of whey 

And a thimbleful of curds ; 
In this rose is honey-dew 
That a bee hath brought for you ! 

" Welcome^ bonnie queen of Fay ! 

Call thy sisters from the gloam, 
And, whilst I am on my way, 

Feast and frolic in my home, — 
Kiss the moonbeams, blanching white, 
Shrinking, shivering with afnright ! 



THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE. 61 

" Welcome, all, and have no fear, — 

There is flax upon the sill, 
No foul sprite can enter here, — 

Feast and frolic as you will ; 
Feast and frisk till break of day, — 
Welcome, little folk of Fay ! " 

Thus having said and thus having sung, 
Harold went upon his way, and came to his 
boat and entered into it and journeyed to the 
haven where some time he had seen and dis- 
coursed with Eleanor, his mother. His 
course to this same haven lay, as before, 
over the waters that stole in between the 
two islands from the great sea beyond. Fair 
shone the moon, and the night was passing 
fair ; the shadows rolled from the hilltops in 
their sleep and lay like little weary children 
in the valleys and upon the shore, and they 
were rocked in the cradles of those valleys, 
and the waters along the shore sung softly 
to them. Upon this hand lay the island 
where the goats and the kine found sweet 
pasturage, and upon the other hand stretched 
the island where people abode, and where 



62 THE PAGAN SEAL- WIFE. 

the bloody S tennis stones rebuked the smil- 
ing sky, and where ghosts walked and wailed 
and waved their white arms in the shadows 
of those haunted ruins where once upon a 
time the Picts had dwelt. And Harold's 
heart was full of joy, the more in especial 
when, as he bore nigh unto the haven, he 
heard sweet music and beheld a goodly 
company of people that danced in the moon- 
light upon the fair green holm. Then, when 
presently his boat touched the inner shore of 
the haven, and he departed therefrom and 
drew the boat upon the shore, he saw 
wherefrom issued the beautiful music to 
which the people danced; he saw that the 
waters reached out their white fingers and 
touched the kale and the fair pebbles and 
the brittle shells and the moss upon the 
beach, and these things gave forth sweet 
sounds, which were as if a thousand attuned 
harps vied with the singing of the summer- 
night winds. Then, as before, Harold saw 
sealskins lying upon the shore, and presently 
came Eleanor, his mother, and pointing to a 



THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE. 63 

certain fair velvet skin, she said : " Take 
that fair velvet skin into thy boat and speed 
with all haste to thy home. To-morrow at 
sunrise thy bride shall come knocking at thy 
door. And so, farewell, my son, — oh, 
Harold, my only son ! " Which saying, 
Eleanor, the wife of Egbert, drew a skin 
about her and leapt into the sea; nor was 
she ever thereafter beholden of human 
eyes. 

Then Harold took up the fair velvet skin 
to which his mother had directed him, and 
he bore it away with him in his boat. So 
softly went he upon the waters that none of 
them that danced upon the fair green holm 
either saw or heard him. Still danced they 
on to the sweet music made by the white 
ringers of the waves, and still shone the 
white moon upon the fair green holm where 
they so danced. 

Now when came Harold to his home, 
bearing the precious skin with him, he saw 
the fairies at play upon the floor of his hut, 
and they feared no evil, for there was barley 



64 THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE. 

strewn upon the sill so that no wicked sprite 
could enter there. And when Membril, the 
fairy queen, saw him bringing the skin that 
he had found upon the shore, she bade him 
good welcome, and she said and she sung : — 

" I am Membril, queen of Fay, — 
Ponder well what words I say ; 
Hide that fair and velvet skin 
Some secluded spot within; 
In the tree where ravens croak, — 
In the hollow of the oak, 
In the cave with mosses lined, 
In the earth where none may find ; 
Hide it quick and hide it deep, — 
So secure shall be thy sleep, 
Thine shall bride and blessings be, 
Thine a fair posterity, — 
So doth Membril counsel thee ! " 

So, pondering upon this counsel and think- 
ing well of it, Harold took the fair velvet 
skin and hid it, and none knew where it was 
hid, — none save only the raven that lived in 
the hollow oak. And when he had so done 
he returned unto his home and lay upon his 
bed and slept. It came to pass that early 



THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE. 65 

upon the morrow, when the sun made all the 
eastward sky blush for the exceeding ardor 
of his morning kiss, there came a knocking 
at the door of Harold's hut, and Harold 
opened the door, and lo ! there stood upon 
the threshold the fairest maiden that eyes 
ever beheld. Unlike was she to maidens 
dwelling in those islands, for her hair was 
black as the waters of the long winter night, 
and her eyes were as the twin midnight 
rocks that look up from the white waves of 
the moonlit sea in yonder reef ; withal was 
she most beautiful to look upon, and her 
voice was as music that stealeth to one over 
pleasant waters. 

The maiden's name was Persis, and she 
was the daughter of a Pagan king that ruled 
in a country many, many — oh, many leagues 
to the southward of these islands, in a coun- 
try where unicorns and dragons be, and 
where dwelleth the phoenix and hippogriffins 
and the cockatrix, and where bloometh a 
tree that runneth blood, and where mighty 
princes do wondrous things. Now it for- 
5 



66 THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE, 

tuned that the king was minded to wed his 
daughter Persis unto a neighboring prince, 
a high and mighty prince, but one whom 
Persis loved not, neither could she love. So 
for the first time Persis said, "Nay, I shall 
not," unto her father's mandate, whereat the 
king was passing wroth, and he put his 
daughter in a place that was like a jail to 
her, for it was where none might see her, 
and where she might see none, — none but 
those that attended upon her. This much 
told Persis, the Pagan princess, unto Harold, 
and then, furthermore, she said : " The place 
wherein I was put by the king, my father, 
was hard by the sea, and oftentimes I went 
thereon in my little boat, and once, looking 
down from that boat into the sea, I saw the 
face of a fair young man within a magic 
mirror that was held up in the waters of the 
sea by two ghostly hands, and the fair young 
man moved his lips and smiled at me, and 
methought I heard him say ; ' Come, be my 
bride, O fair and gentle Persis ! ' But, 
vastly afeared, I cried out and put back 



THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE, 67 

again to shore. Yet in my dreams I saw- 
that face and heard that voice, nor could I 
find any rest until I came upon the sea again 
in hope to see the face and hear the voice 
once more. Then, that second time, as I 
looked into the sea, another face came up 
from below and lifted above the waters, and 
a woman's voice spake thus to me : 'I am 
mother of him that loveth thee and whom 
thou lovest ; his face hast thou seen in the 
mirror, and of thee I have spoken to him ; 
come, let me bear thee as a bride to him ! ' 
And in that moment a faintness came upon 
me and I fell into her arms, and so was I 
drowned (as men say), and so was I a seal 
a little space until last dancing night, when, 
lo ! some one brought me to life again, and 
one that said her name was Membril showed 
me the way unto thy door. And now I look 
upon thy face in truth, and thou art he who 
shall have me to his wife, for thou art he 
whose face I saw within the mirror which 
the ghostly hands bore up to me that day 
upon the sea ! " 



68 THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE. 

Great then was Harold's joy, and he folded 
her in his arms, and he spake sweet words 
to her, and she was content. So they were 
wed that very day, and there came to do 
them honor all the folk upon these islands : 
Dougal and Tarn and lb and Robbie and 
Nels and Gram and Rupert and Rolf and 
many others and all their kin, and they 
made merry, and it was well. And never 
spake the Pagan princess of that soft velvet 
skin which Harold had hid away, — never 
spake she of it to him or to any other one. 

It is to tell that to Harold and to Persis 
were born these children, and in this order : 
Egbert and lb (that was nicknamed the 
Strong) and Harold and Joan and Tarn 
and Annie and Rupert the Fair and 
Flocken and Elsa and Albert and Theo- 
doric, — these eleven children were born 
unto them in good time ; and right fair 
children were they to see, comely and stout, 
yet sweetly minded withal. And prosper- 
ous times continually befell Harold; his 
herds multiplied, and the fish came into his 



THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE, 6g 

nets, so that presently there was none richer 
than he in all that country, and he did great 
good with his riches, for he had compassion 
to the poor. So Harold was beloved of all, 
and all spake full fairly of his wife, — how 
that she cared for his little ones, and kept 
the house, and did deeds of sweet charity 
among the needy and distressed, — ay, so 
was Persis, the wife of Harold, beloved of 
all, and by none more than by Harold, who 
was wont to say that Persis had brought 
him all he loved best : his children, his for- 
tune, his happiness, and, best of all, herself. 
So now they were wed twice seven years, 
and in that time was Persis still as young 
and fair to look upon as when she came to 
Harold's door for the first time and knocked. 
This I account to be a marvel, but still more 
a marvel was it that in all these years spake 
she never a word of that soft velvet skin 
which Harold took and hid, — never a word 
to him nor to any one else. But the soft 
velvet skin lay meanwhile in the hollow of 
the oak, and in the branches of that tree 



70 THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE. 

perched a raven that croaked and croaked 
and croaked. 

Now it befell upon a time that a ship 
touched at that island, and there came there- 
from men that knelt down upon the shore 
and made strange prayers to a strange god, 
and forthwith uplifted in that island a sym- 
bol of wood in the similitude of a cross. 
Straightway went Harold with the rest to 
know the cause thereof, being fearful lest 
for this impiety their own gods, whom they 
served diligently, should send hail and fire 
upon them and their herds. But those that 
had come in the ship spake gently with 
them and showed themselves to be peaceful 
folk whose god delighted not in wars, but 
rather in gentleness and love. How it was, 
I, knowing not, cannot say, but presently 
the cause of that new god, whose law was 
gentleness and love, waxed mightily, and 
the people came from all around to kiss that 
cross and worship it. And among them 
came Harold, for in his heart had dawned 
the light of a new wisdom, and he knew the 



THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE. 7 1 

truth as we know it, you and I. So Harold 
was baptized in the Christian faith, he and 
his children; but Persis, his wife, was not 
baptized, for she was the daughter of a 
Pagan king, and she feared to bring evil 
upon those she loved by doing any blas- 
phemous thing. Right sorely grieved was 
Harold because of this, and oftentimes he 
spake with her thereof, and oftentimes he 
prayed unto his god and ours to incline her 
mind toward the cross which saveth all alike. 
But Persis would say : " My best beloved, 
let me not do this thing in haste, for I fear 
to vex thy god since I am a Pagan and the 
daughter of a Pagan king, and therefore 
have not within me the light that there is in 
thee and thy kind. Perchance (since thy 
god is good and gracious) the light will 
come to me anon, and shine before mine 
eyes as it shineth before thine. I pray thee, 
let me bide my time." So spake Persis, and 
her life ever thereafter was kind and char- 
itable, as, soothly, it had ever before been, 
and she served Harold, her husband, well, 



72 THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE. 

and she was beloved of all, and a great 
sweetness came to all out of her daily life. 

It fortuned, upon a day whilst Harold was 
from home, there was knocking at the door 
of their house, and forthwith the door opened 
and there stood in the midst of them one 
clad all in black and of rueful countenance. 
Then, as if she foresaw evil, Persis called 
unto her little ones and stood between them 
and that one all in black, and she demanded 
of him his name and will. " I am the Death- 
Angel," quoth he, " and I come for the best 
beloved of thy lambs ! " 

Now Theodoric was that best beloved ; for 
he was her very little one, and had always 
slept upon her bosom. So when she heard 
those words she made a great outcry, and 
wrestled with the Death-Angel, and sought 
to stay him in his purpose. But the Death- 
Angel chilled her with his breath, and over- 
came her, and prevailed against her ; and he 
reached into the midst of them and took 
Theodoric in his arms and folded him upon 
his breast, and Theodoric fell asleep there, 



THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE. 73 

and his head drooped upon the Death-Angel's 
shoulder. But in her battle for the child, 
Persis catched at the chain about the child's 
neck, and the chain brake and remained in 
her hand, and upon the chain was the little 
cross of fair alabaster which an holy man 
had put there when Theodoric was baptized. 
So the Death- Angel went his way with that 
best beloved lamb, and Persis fell upon her 
face and wailed. 

The years went on and all was well upon 
these islands. Egbert became a mighty 
fisherman, and lb (that was nicknamed the 
Strong) wrought wondrous things in Norro- 
way, as all men know ; Joan was wed to 
Cuthbert the Dane, and Flocken was wooed 
of a rich man's son of Scotland. So were 
all things for good and for the best, and it 
was a marvel to all that Persis, the wife of 
Harold, looked still to be as young and beau- 
tiful as when she came from the sea to be 
her husband's bride. Her life was full of 
gentleness and charity, and all folk blessed 
her. But never in all these years spake she 



74 THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE. 

aught to any one of the fair velvet skin ; and 
through all the years that skin lay hid in the 
hollow of the oak-tree, where the raven 
croaked and croaked and croaked. 

At last upon a time a malady fell upon 
Persis, and a strange light came into her 
eyes, and naught they did was of avail to 
her. One day she called Harold to her, and 
said : " My beloved, the time draweth near 
when we twain must part. I pray thee, send 
for the holy man, for I would fain be bap- 
tized in thy faith and in the faith of our 
children." So Harold fetched the holy man, 
and Persis, the daughter of the Pagan king, 
was baptized, and she spake freely and full 
sweetly of her love to Jesus Christ, her 
Saviour, and she prayed to be taken into his 
rest. And when she was baptized, there 
was given to her the name of Ruth, which 
was most fairly done, I trow, for soothly 
she had been the friend of all. 

Then, when the holy man was gone, she 
said to her husband : " Beloved, I beseech 
thee go to yonder oak-tree, and bring me 



THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE. 75 

from the hollow thereof the fair velvet skin 
that hath lain therein so many years." 

Then Harold marvelled, and he cried : 
"Who told thee that the fair velvet skin 
was hidden there ? " 

" The raven told me all," she answered ; 
" and had I been so minded I might have 
left thee long ago, — thee and our little ones. 
But I loved thee and them, and the fair 
velvet skin hath been unseen of me." 

" And wouldst thou leave us now ? " he 
cried. " Nay, it shall not be ! Thou shalt 
not see that fair velvet skin, for this very 
day shall I cast it into the sea ! " 

But she put an arm about his neck and 
said : " This night, dear one, we part ; but 
whether we shall presently be joined together 
in another life I know not, neither canst 
thou say ; for I, having been a Pagan and 
the daughter of a Pagan king, may by my 
birth and custom have so grievously offended 
our true God that even in his compassion 
and mercy he shall not find pardon for me. 
Therefore I would have thee fetch — since I 



7 6 THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE. 

shall die this night and do require of thee 
this last act of kindness — I would have thee 
fetch that same fair velvet skin from yonder 
oak-tree, and wrap me therein, and bear me 
hence, and lay me upon the green holm by 
the farther haven, for this is dancing night, 
and the seal-folk shall come from the sea as 
is their wont. Thou shalt lay me, so 
wrapped within that fair velvet skin, upon 
that holm, and thou shalt go a space aside 
and watch throughout the night, coming not 
anear me (as thou lovest me !) until the dawn 
breaks, nor shalt thou make any outcry, but 
thou shalt wait until the night is sped. 
Then, when thou comest at daybreak to the 
holm, if thou findest me in the fair velvet 
skin thou shalt know that my sin hath been 
pardoned ; but if I be not there thou mayst 
know that, being a Pagan, the seal-folk have 
borne me back into the sea unto my kind. 
Thus do I require of thee ; swear so to do, 
and let thy beloved bless thee." 

So Harold swore to do, and so he did. 
Straightway he went to the oak-tree and 



THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE. 77 

took from the hollow thereof the fair velvet 
skin ; seeing which deed, the raven flew 
away and was never thereafter seen in these 
islands. And with a heavy heart, and with 
full many a caress and word of love, did 
Harold bind his fair wife in that same velvet 
skin, and he bore her to his boat, and they 
went together upon the waters ; for he had 
sworn so to do. His course unto the haven 
lay as before over the waters that stole in 
between the two islands from the great 
troubled sea beyond. Fair shone the moon, 
and the night was passing fair ; the shadows 
lay asleep, like little weary children, in the 
valleys, and the waters moaned, and the winds 
rebuked the white fingers that stretched up 
from the waves to clutch them. And when 
they were come to the inner shore of the 
haven, Harold took his wife and bore her up 
the bank and laid her where the light came 
down from the moon and slept full sweetly 
upon the fragrant sward. Then, kissing 
her, he went his way and sat behind the 
Stennis stones a goodly space beyond, and 



78 THE PAGAN SEAL-IVIFE. 

there he kept his watch, as he had sworn to 
do. 

Now wit ye well a grievous heavy watch 
it was that night, for his heart yearned for 
that beloved wife that lay that while upon 
the fair green holm, — ay, never before had 
night seemed so long to Harold as did that 
dancing night when he waited for the seal- 
folk to come where the some time Pagan 
princess lay wrapped in the fair velvet skin. 
But while he watched and waited, Membril, 
the fairy queen, came and brought others of 
her kind with her, and they made a circle 
about Harold, and threw around him such a 
charm that no evil could befall him from the 
ghosts and ghouls that in their shrouds 
walked among those bloody stones and 
wailed wofully and waved their white arms. 
For Membril, coming to Harold in the 
similitude of a glow-worm, made herself 
known to him, and she said and she sung : 

" Loving heart, be calm a space 
In this gloomy vigil place ; 



THE PAGAN SEAL- WIFE. 79 

Though these confines haunted be 
Naught of harm can come to thee — 
Nothing canst thou see or hear 
Of the ghosts that stalk anear, 
For around thee Membril flings 
Charms of Fay and fairy rings." 

Nothing daunted was Harold by thoughts 
of evil monsters, and naught recked he of 
the uncanny dangers of that haunted place ; 
but he addressed these words to Membril 
and her host, and he said and he sung : 

" Tell me if thy piercing eyes 

See the inner haven shore 
There my Own Beloved lies, 

With the cowslips bending o'er : 
Speed, O gentle folk of Fay ! 
And in guise of cowslips say 
I shall love my love for aye I " 

Even so did Membril and the rest; and 
presently they returned, and they brought 
these words unto Harold, saying and singing 
them : — 

" We as cowslips in that place 
Clustered round thy dear one's face, 



So THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE. 

And we whispered to her there 
Those same words we went to bear ; 
And she smiled and bade us then 
Bear these words to thee again : 
1 Die we shall, and part we may, — 
Love is love and lives for aye ! ' " 

Then of a sudden there was a tumult upon 
the waters, as if the waters were troubled, 
and there came up out of the waters a host 
of seals that made their way to the shore 
and cast aside their skins and came forth in 
the forms of men and of women, for they 
were the drowned folk that were come, as 
was their wont, to dance in the moonlight 
upon the fair green holm. At that moment 
the waters stretched out their white fingers 
and struck the kale and the pebbles and the 
soft moss upon the beach, for they sought to 
make music for the seal-folk to dance there- 
by ; but the music that was made was not 
merry nor gleeful, but was passing grewsome 
and mournful. And presently the seal-folk 
came where lay the wife of Harold wrapped 
in the fair velvet skin, and they knew her of 



THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE. 



old, and they called her by what name she 
was known to them, " Persis ! Persis ! " over 
and over again, and there was great wailing 
among the seal-folk for a mighty space ; and 
the seal-folk danced never at all that night, 
but wailed about the wife of Harold, and 
called " Persis ! Persis ! " over and over again, 
and made great moan. And at last all was 
still once more, for the seal-folk, weeping 
and clamoring grievously, went back into 
the sea, and the sea sobbed itself to sleep. 

Mindful of the oath he swore, Harold 
dared not go down to that shore, but he 
besought Membril, the queen of Fay, to 
fetch him tidings from his beloved, whether 
she still lay upon the holm, or whether the 
seal-folk had borne her away with them into 
the waters of the deep. But Membril might 
not go, nor any of her host, for already the 
dawn was in the east and the kine were low- 
ing on yonder slope. So Harold was left 
alone a tedious time, until the sun looked 
upon the earth, and then, with clamoring 
heart, Harold came from the S tennis stones 
6 



82 THE PAGAhl SEAL-WIFE. 

and leapt downward to the holm where his 
beloved had lain that weary while. Then he 
saw that the fair velvet skin was still there, 
and presently he saw that within the skin 
his beloved still reposed. He called to her, 
but she made no answer ; with exceeding 
haste he kneeled down and did off the fair 
velvet skin, and folded his beloved to his 
breast. The sun shone full upon her glori- 
ous face and kissed away the dew that clung 
to her white cheeks. 

" Thou art redeemed, O my beloved ! " 
cried Harold; but her lips spake not, and 
her eyes opened not upon him. Yet on the 
dead wife's face was such a smile as angels 
wear, and it told him that they should meet 
again in a love that knoweth no fear of part- 
ing. And as Harold held her to his bosom 
and wailed, there fell down from her hand 
what she had kept with her to the last, and 
it lay upon the fair green holm, — the little 
alabaster cross which she had snatched from 
Theodoric's neck that day the Death-Angel 
bore the child away. 



THE PAGAN SEAL-WIFE. &3 

It was to tell of Harold, the son of Egbert, 
the son of lb, and of Persis, his wife, daugh- 
ter of the Pagan king ; and it hath been told. 
And there is no more to tell, for the tale is 
ended. 



IV. 



FLAIL, TRASK, AND BISLAND. 




Y quondam friends, Flail, 
Trask, and Bisland, are 
no more ; they are dead, 
and with them has gone 
out of existence as 
gross an imposition as 
the moral cowardice of 
man were capable of 
inventing, obstructing, and practicing. 

When Alice became my wife she knew 
that I was a lover and collector of books, 
but, being a young thing, she had no idea of 
the monstrous proportions which bibliomania, 
unchecked, is almost certain to acquire. In- 
deed, the dear girl innocently and rapturously 
encouraged this insidious vice. " Some time," 
she used to say, " we shall have a house of 



FLAIL, TRASK, AND BIS LAND. 85 

our own, and then your library shall cover 
the whole top-floor, and the book-cases shall 
be built in the walls, and there shall be a 
lovely blue-glass skylight," etc. Moreover, 
although she could not tell the difference 
between an Elzevir and a Pickering, or be- 
tween a folio and an octavo, Alice was very 
proud of our little library, and I recall now 
with real delight the times I used to hear 
her showing off those precious books to her 
lady callers. Alice made up for certain inac- 
curacies of information with a distinct en- 
thusiasm and garrulity that never failed to 
impress her callers deeply. I was mighty 
proud of Alice ; I was prepared to say, para- 
phrasing Sam Johnson's remark about the 
Scotchmen, " A wife can be made much of, 
if caught young," 

It was not until after little Grolier and lit- 
tle Richard du Bury were born to us that 
Alice's regard for my pretty library seemed 
to abate. I then began to realize the truth 
of what my bachelor friend Kinzie had often 
declared, — namely, that the chief objection 



86 FLAIL, TRASK, AND BIS LAND. 

to children was that they weaned the collector 
from his love of books. Grolier was a mis- 
chievous boy, and I had hard work trying to 
convince his mother that he should by no 
means be allowed to have his sweet but 
destructive will with my Bewicks and Bed- 
fords. Thumb and finger marks look well 
enough in certain places, but I protested 
that they did not enhance the quaint beauty 
of an old wood-cut, a delicate binding, or a 
wide margin. And Richard du Bury — a 
lovely little i6mo of a child — was almost as 
destructive as his older brother. The most 
painful feature of it all to me then was that 
their mother actually protected the toddling 
knaves in their vandalism, I never saw 
another woman change so as Alice did after 
those two boys came to us. Why, she even 
suggested to me one day that when we did 
build our new house we should devote the 
upper story thereof not to library but to nur- 
sery purposes ! 

Things gradually got to the pass that I 
began to be afraid to bring books into the 



FLAIL, TRASK, AND BIS LAND. 87 

house. At first Alice used to reproach me 
indirectly by eying the new book jealously, 
and hinting in a subtle, womanly way that 
Grolier needed new shoes, or that Richard 
was sadly in need of a new cap. Presently, 
encouraged by my lamblike reticence, Alice 
began to complain gently of what she termed 
my extravagance, and finally she fell into 
the pernicious practice of berating me roundly 
for neglecting my family for the selfish — 
yes, the cruel — gratification of a foolish fad, 
and then she would weep and gather up the 
two boys and wonder how soon we should all 
be in the poorhouse. 

I have spoken of my bachelor friend, 
Kinzie; there was a philosopher for you, 
and his philosophy was all the sweeter be- 
cause it had never been imbittered by mari- 
tal experience. I had confidence in Kinzie, 
and I told him all about the dilemma I was 
in. He pitied me and condoled with me, 
for he was a sympathetic man, and he was, 
too, as consistent a bibliomaniac as I ever 
met with. " Be of good cheer," said he, " we 



88 FLAIL, TRASK, AND BISLAND. 

shall find a way out of all this trouble." 
And he suggested a way. I seized upon it 
as the proverbial drowning man is supposed 
to clutch at the proverbial straw. 

The next time I took a bundle of books 
home I marched into the house boldly with 
them. Alice fetched a deep sigh. "Ah, 
been buying more books, have you ? " she 
asked in a despairing tone. 

" No, indeed," I answered triumphantly ; 
" they were given to me, — a present 
from Judge Trask. I 'm in great luck, 
ain't I ? " 

Alice was almost as pleased as I was. 
The interest with which she inspected the 
lovely volumes was not feigned. " But who 
is Judge Trask?" she asked, as she read the 
autographic lines upon a flyleaf in each 
book. I explained glibly that the judge was 
a wealthy and cultured citizen who felt some- 
what under obligation to me for certain little 
services I had rendered him one time and 
another. I was not to be trapped or cor- 
nered. I had learned my sinful lesson per- 



FLAIL, TRASK, AND BISLAND. 89 

fectly. Alice never so much as suspected 
me of evil. 

The scheme worked so well that I pursued 
it with more or less diligence. I should say- 
that about twice a week on an average a 
bundle of books came to the house " with 
the compliments " of either Judge Trask or 
Colonel Flail or Mr, Bisland. You can under- 
stand that I could not hope to play the Trask 
deception exclusively and successfully. I 
invented Colonel Flail and Mr, Bisland, and 
I contrived to render them quite as liberal in 
their patronage as the mythical Judge Trask 
himself. Occasionally a donation came in, 
by way of variety, from Smeaton and Hol- 
brook and Caswell and other solitary 
creations of my mendacious imagination, 
when I used to blind poor dear Alice to the 
hideous truth. Touching myself, I gave it 
out that I had abandoned book-buying, was 
convinced of the folly of the mania, had re- 
formed and was repentant. Alice loved me 
all the better for that, and she became once 
more the sweetest, most amiable little woman 



9° FLAIL, TRASK, AND BIS LAND. 

in all the world. She was inexpressibly 
happy in the fond delusion that I had be- 
come prudent and thrifty, and was putting 
money in bank for that home we were going 
to buy — sometime. 

Meanwhile the names of Flail Trask, and 
Bisland became household words with us. 
Occasionally Smeaton and Holbrook and 
Caswell were mentioned gratefully as some 
fair volume bearing their autograph was 
inspected; but, after all, Flail, Trask, and 
Bisland were the favorites, for it was from 
them that most of my beloved books came. 
Yes, Alice gradually grew to love those three 
myths ; she loved them because they were 
good to me. 

Alice had, like most others of her sex, a 
strong sense of duty. She determined to do 
something for my noble friends, and finally 
she planned a lovely little dinner whereat 
Judge Trask and Colonel Flail and Mr= Bis- 
land were to be regaled with choicest viands 
of Alice's choice larder and with the sweetest 
speeches of Alice's graceful heart. I was 



FLAIL, TRASK, AND BISLAND. 9 1 

authorized only to convey the invitations to 
this delectable banquet, and here was a 
pretty plight for a man to be in, surely 
enough ! But my bachelor friend Kinzie 
(ough, the Mephisto !) helped me out. I 
reported back to Alice that Judge Trask was 
out of town, that Colonel Flail was sick abed 
with grip, and that Mr. Bisland was altogether 
too shy a man to think of venturing out to a 
dinner alone. Alice was dreadfully disap- 
pointed. Still there was consolation in feel- 
ing that she had done her duty in trying to 
do it. 

Well, this system of deception and perjury 
went on a long time, Alice never suspecting 
any evil, but perfectly happy in my supposed 
reform and economy, and in the gracious 
liberality of those three Maecenas-like friends, 
Flail, Trask, and Bisland, who kept pouring 
in rare and beauteous old tomes upon me. 
She was joyous, too, in the prospect of that 
new house which we would soon be able to 
build, now that I had so long quit the old 
ruinous mania for book-buying ! And I — 



92 FLAIL, TRASK, AND BISLAND. 

wretch that I was — I humored her in this 
conceit ; I heaped perjury upon perjury : 
lying and deception had become my second 
nature. Yet I loathed myself and I hated 
those books ; they reproached me every time 
I came into their presence. So I was miser- 
able and helpless ; how hard it is to turn 
about when one once gets into the downward 
path. The shifts I was put to, and the 
desperate devices which I was forced to 
employ, — I shudder to recall them ! Life 
became a constant, terrifying lie. 

Thank Heaven, it is over now, and my 
face is turned the right way. A third little 
son was born to us. Alice was, oh ! so very 
ill. When she was convalescing she said to 
me one day : " Hiram, I have been thinking 
it all over, and I 've made up my mind that 
we must name the baby Trask Flail Bisland } 
after our three good friends." 

I did n't make any answer, went out into 
the hall and communed awhile with my own 
hideous, tormented self. How my soul re- 
volted against the prospect of giving to that 



FLAIL, TRASK, AND BISLAND. 93 

innocent babe a name that would serve 
simply to scourge me through the rest of 
my wicked life 1 No, I could not consent 
to that. I would be a coward no longer ! 

I went back into Alice's room, and sat 
upon the bed beside her, and took one of 
Alice's dear little white hands in mine , and 
told her everything, told Alice the whole 
truth, — all about my wickedness and perju- 
ries and deceptions ; told her what a selfish, 
cruel monster I had been ; dispelled all the 
sinful delusion about Flail, Trask and Bis- 
land; threw myself, penitent and hopeless, 
upon my deceived, outraged little wife's 
mercy. Was it a mean advantage to take 
of a sick woman ? 

I fancied she would reproach me, for I knew 
that her heart was set upon that new house 
she had talked of so often ; I told her that the 
savings she had supposed were in bank, were 
in reality represented only by and in those 
stately folios and sumptuous quartos which 
the mythical Flail, Trask, and Bisland had 
presumably donated. " But," I added, " I 



94 FLAIL, TRASK, AND BISLAND. 

shall sell them now, and with the money I 
shall build the home in which we may be 
happy again, — a lovely home, sweetheart, 
with no library at all, but all nursery if you 
wish it so ! " 

" No," said Alice, when I had ended my 
blubbering confession, "we shall not part 
with the books ; they have caused you more 
suffering than they have me, and, moreover, 
their presence will have a beneficial effect 
upon you. Furthermore, I myself have be- 
come attached to them, — you know I thought 
they were given to you, and so I have learned 
to care for them. Poor Judge Trask and 
Colonel Flail and Mr. Bisland, — so they are 
only myths ? Dear Hiram," she added with 
a sigh, " I can forgive you for everything 
except for taking those three good men out 
of our lives ! " 

After all this I have indeed reformed. I 
have actually become prudent, and I have a 
bank-account that is constantly increasing. 
I do not hate books ; I simply do not buy 
them. And I eschew that old sinner, Kinzie, 



FLAIL, TRASK, AND BIS LAND. 95 

and all the sinister influences he represents. 
As for our third little boy, we have named 
him Reform Meigs, after Alice's mother's 
grandfather, who built the first saw-mill in 
what is now the State of Ohio, and was 
killed by the Indians in 1796. 



V. 



THE TOUCH IN THE HEART. 




^LD Abel Dunklee was 
delighted, and so was 
old Abel's wife, when 
little Abel came. For 
this coming they had 
waited many years. 
God had prospered 
them elsewise ; this 
one supreme blessing only had been with- 
held. Yet Abel had never despaired. " I 
shall some time have a son," said he. " I 
shall call him Abel. He shall be rich ; he 
shall succeed to my business ; my house, my 
factory, my lands, my fortune, — all shall be 
his ! " Abel Dunklee felt this to be a cer- 
tainty, and with this prospect constantly in 
mind he slaved and pinched and bargained. 



THE TOUCH IN THE HEART. 97 

So when at last the little one did come it was 
as heir to a considerable property. 

The joy in the house of Dunklee was not 
shared by the community at large. Abel 
Dunklee was by no means a popular man. 
Folk had the well-defined opinion that he 
was selfish, miserly, and hard. If he had 
not been actually bad, he had never been 
what the world calls a good man. His 
methods had been of the grinding, sordid 
order. He had always been scrupulously 
honest in the payment of his debts, and in 
keeping his word; but his sense of duty 
seemed to stop there : Abel's idea of good- 
ness was to owe no man any money. He 
never gave a penny to charities, and he 
never spent any time sympathizing with the 
misfortunes or distresses of other people. He 
was narrow, close, selfish, and hard, so his 
neighbors and the community at large said, 
and I shall not deny that the verdict was a 
just one. 

When a little one comes into this world of 
ours, it is the impulse of the people here to 
7 



9 « THE TOUCH IN THE HEART 

bid it welcome, and to make its lot pleasant. 
When little Abel was born no such enthu- 
siasm obtained outside the austere Dunklee 
household. Popular sentiment found vent in 
an expression of the hope that the son and 
heir would grow up to scatter the dollars which 
old man Dunklee had accumulated by years 
of relentless avarice and unflagging toil But 
Dr. Hardy — he who had officiated in an all- 
important capacity upon that momentous 
occasion in the Dunklee household — Dr. 
Hardy shook his head wisely, and perhaps 
sadly, as if he were saying to himself : " No, 
the child will never do either what the old 
folk or what the other folk would have him 
do ; he is not long for here." 

Had you questioned him closely, Dr. Hardy 
would have told you that little Abel was as 
frail a babe as ever did battle for life. Dr. 
Hardy would surely never have dared say 
that to old Dunklee ; for in his rapture in 
the coming of that little boy old Dunklee 
would have smote the offender who pre- 
sumed even to intimate that the babe was 



THE TOUCH IN THE HEART. 99 

not the most vigorous as well as the most 
beautiful creature upon earth, The old man 
was simply assotted upon the child, — in a 
selfish way, undoubtedly, but even this sel- 
fish love of that puny little child showed that 
the old man was capable of somewhat better 
than his past life had been. To hear him 
talk you might have fancied that Mrs. Dunk- 
lee had no part or parcel or interest in their 
offspring. It was always " my little boy," — 
yes, old Abel Dunklee's money had a rival 
in the old man's heart at last, and that rival 
was a helpless, shrunken, sickly little babe. 

Among his business associates Abel Dunk- 
lee was familiarly known as Old Growly, for 
the reason that his voice was harsh and dis- 
cordant, and sounded for all the world like 
the hoarse growling of an ill-natured bear. 
Abel was not a particularly irritable person, 
but his slavish devotion to money-getting, 
his indifference to the amenities of life, 
his entire neglect of the tender practices of 
humanity, his rough, unkempt personality, 
and his deep, hoarse voice, — these things 



ioo THE TOUCH IN THE HEART 

combined to make that sobriquet of " Old 
Growly " an exceedingly appropriate one. 
And presumably Abel never thought of 
resenting the slur implied therein and there- 
by ; he was too shrewd not to see that, how- 
ever disrespectful and evil-intentioned the 
phrase might be, it served him to good pur- 
pose; for it conduced to that very general 
awe, not to say terror, which kept people 
from bothering him with their charitable and 
sentimental schemes, 

Yes, I think we can accept it as a fact 
that Abel liked that sobriquet; it meant 
more money in his pocket, and fewer de- 
mands upon his time and patience. 

But Old Growly abroad and Old Growly 
at home were two very different people. 
Only the voice was the same. The homely, 
furrowed, wizened face lighted up, and the 
keen, restless eyes lost their expression of 
shrewdness, and the thin, bony hands that 
elsewhere clutched and clutched and pinched 
and pinched for possession unlimbered them- 
selves in the presence of little Abel, and 



THE TOUCH IN THE HEART. 101 

reached out their long fingers yearningly 
and caressingly toward the little child. Then 
the hoarse voice would growl a salutation 
that was full of tenderness, for it came 
straight from the old man's heart ; only, had 
you not known how much he loved the 
child, you might have thought otherwise, 
for the old man's voice was always hoarse 
and discordant, and that was why they called 
him Old Growly. But what proved his love 
for that puny babe was the fact that every 
afternoon, when he came home from the 
factory, Old Growly brought his little boy 
a dime ; and once, when the little fellow had 
a fever on him from teething, Old Growly 
brought him a dollar ! Next day the tooth 
came through and the fever left him, but 
you could not make the old man believe but 
what it was the dollar that did it all. That 
was. natural, perhaps; for his life had been 
spent in grubbing for money, and he had not 
the soul to see that the best and sweetest 
things in human life are not to be had by 
riches alone. 



102 THE TOUCH IN THE HEART. 

As the doctor had in one way and another 
intimated would be the case, the child did 
not wax fat and vigorous. Although Old 
Growly did not seem to see the truth, little 
Abel grew older only to become what the 
doctor had foretold, — a cripple. A weak- 
ness of the spine was developed, a malady 
that dwarfed the child's physical growth, 
giving to his wee face a pinched, starved 
look, warping his emaciated body, and en- 
feebling his puny limbs, while at the same 
time it quickened the intellectual faculties to 
the degree of precocity. And so two and 
three and four years went by, little Abel 
clinging to life with pathetic heroism, and 
Old Growly loving that little cripple with all 
the violence of his selfish nature. Never 
once did it occur to the father that his child 
might die, that death's seal was already set 
upon the misshapen little body; on the 
contrary, Old Growly's thoughts were con- 
stantly of little Abel's famous future, of the 
great fortune he was to fall heir to, of the 
prosperous business career he was to pursue, 



THE TOUCH IN THE HEART, 103 

of the influence he was to wield in the world, 
— of dollars, dollars, dollars, millions of 
them which little Abel was some time to 
possess ; these were Old Growly's dreams, 
and he loved to dream them ! 

Meanwhile the world did well by the old 
man ; despising him, undoubtedly, for his 
avarice and selfishness, but constantly pour- 
ing wealth, and more wealth, and ever more 
wealth into his coffers. As for the old man, 
he cared not for what the world thought or 
said, so long as it paid tribute to him ; he 
wrought on as of old, industriously, shrewdly, 
hardly, but with this new purpose : to make 
his little boy happy and great with riches. 

Toys and picture-books were vanities in 
which Old Growly never indulged ; to have 
expended a farthing for chattels of that char- 
acter would have seemed to Old Growly like 
sinful extravagance. The few playthings 
which little Abel had were such as his 
mother surreptitiously bought ; the old man, 
believed that a child should be imbued with 
a proper regard for the value of money from 



104 THE TOUCH IN THE HEART. 

the very start, so his presents were always 
cash in hand, and he bought a large tin bank 
for little Abel, and taught the child how to 
put the copper and silver pieces into it, and 
he labored diligently to impress upon the 
child of how great benefit that same money 
would be to him by and by. Just picture to 
yourself, if you can, that fond, foolish old 
man seeking to teach this lesson to that wan- 
eyed, pinched-face little cripple ! But little 
Abel took it all very seriously, and was so 
apt a pupil that Old Growly made great joy 
and was wont to rub his bony hands glee- 
fully and say to himself : " He has great 
genius, — this boy of mine, — great genius 
for finance ! " 

But on a day, coming from his factory, 
Old Growly was stricken with horror to find 
that during his absence from home a great 
change had come upon his child. The doc- 
tor said it was simply the progress of the 
disease ; that it was a marvel that little Abel 
had already held out so long ; that from the 
moment of his birth the seal of death had 



THE TOUCH IN THE HEART. 105 

been set upon him in that cruel malady which 
had drawn his face and warped his body and 
limbs. Then all at once Old Growly's eyes 
seemed to be opened to the truth, and like 
a lightning flash it came to him that perhaps 
his pleasant dreams which he had dreamed 
of his child's future could never be realized. 
It was a bitter awakening, yet amid it all the 
old man was full of hope, determination, and 
battle. He had little faith in drugs and 
nursing and professional skill; he remem- 
bered that upon previous occasions cures 
had been wrought by means of money ; teeth 
had been brought through, the pangs of colic 
beguiled, and numerous other ailments to 
which infancy is heir had by the same spe- 
cific been baffled. So now Old Growly set 
about wooing his little boy from the embrace 
of death, — sought to coax him back to 
health with money, and the dimes became 
dollars, and the tin bank was like to burst 
of fulness. But little Abel drooped and 
drooped, and he lost all interest in other 
things, and he was content to lie, drooping- 



106 THE TOUCH IN THE HEART. 

eyed and listless, in his mother's arms all 
day. At last the little flame went out with 
hardly so much as a flutter, and the hope of 
the house of Dunklee was dissipated forever. 
But even in those last moments of the little 
cripple's suffering the father struggled to 
call back the old look into the fading eyes, 
and the old smile into the dear, white face. 
He brought treasure from his vaults and 
held it up before those fading eyes, and 
promised it all, all, all — everything he pos- 
sessed, gold, houses, lands — all he had he 
would give to that little child if that little 
child would only live. But the fading eyes 
saw other things, and the ears that were 
deaf to the old man's lamentations heard 
voices that soothed the anguish of that last 
solemn hour. And so little Abel knew the 
Mystery. 

Then the old man crept away from that 
vestige of his love, and stood alcne in the 
night, and lifted up his face, and beat his 
bosom, and moaned at the stars, asking over 
and over again why he had been so bereaved. 



THE TOUCH IN THE HEART. 107 

And while he agonized in this wise and cried 
there came to him a voice, — a voice so small 
that none else could hear, a voice seemingly 
from God ; for from infinite space beyond 
those stars it sped its instantaneous way to 
the old man's soul and lodged there. 
" Abel, I have touched thy heart ! " 
And so, having come into the darkness of 
night, old Dunklee went back into the light 
of day and found life beautiful; for the 
touch was in his heart. 

After that, Old Growly's way of dealing 
with the world changed. He had always been 
an honest man, honest as the world goes. 
But now he was somewhat better than hon- 
est; he was kind, considerate, merciful. 
People saw and felt the change, and they 
knew why it was so. But the pathetic part 
of it all was that Old Growly would never 
admit — no, not even to himself — that he 
was the least changed from his old grinding, 
hard self. The good deeds he did were not 
his own ; they were his little boy's, — at least 
so he said. And it was his whim when doing 



io8 THE TOUCH IN THE HEART 

some kind and tender thing to lay it to little 
Abel, of whom he always spoke as if he 
were still living. His workmen, his neighbors, 
his townsmen, — all alike felt the gracious- 
ness of the wondrous change, and many, ah ! 
many a lowly sufferer blessed that broken 
old man for succor in little Abel's name. 
And the old man was indeed much broken : 
not that he had parted with his shrewdness 
and acumen, for, as of old, his every venture 
prospered; but in this particular his mind 
seemed weakened ; that, as I have said, he 
fancied his child lived, that he was given to 
low muttering and incoherent mumblings, of 
which the burden seemed to be that child of 
his, and that his greatest pleasure appeared 
now to be watching other little ones at their 
play. In fact, so changed was he from the 
Old Growly of former years, that, whereas 
he had then been wholly indifferent to the 
presence of those little ones upon earth, he 
now sought their company, and delighted to 
view their innocent and mirthful play. And 
so, presently, the children, from regarding 



THE TOUCH IN THE HEART. 109 

him at first with distrust, came to confide in 
and love him, and in due time the old man 
was known far and wide as Old Grampa 
Growly, and he was pleased thereat. It was 
his wont to go every fair day, of an after- 
noon, into a park hard by his dwelling, and 
mingle with the crowd of little folk there ; 
and when they were weary of their sports 
they used to gather about him, — some even 
clambering upon his knees, — and hear him 
tell his story, for he had only one story to tell, 
and that was the story that lay next his heart, 
— the story ever and forever beginning with, 
" Once ther' wuz a littl' boy." A very ten- 
der little story it was, too, told very much 
more sweetly than I could ever tell it ; for it 
was of Old Grampa Growly's own little boy, 
and it came from that heart in which the 
touch — the touch of God Himself — lay 
like a priceless pearl. 

So you must know that the last years of 
the old man's life made full atonement for 
those that had gone before. People forgot 
that the old man had ever been other than 



no THE TOUCH IN THE HEART. 

he was now, and of course the children never 
knew otherwise. But as for himself, Old 
Grampa Growly grew tenderer and tenderer, 
and his goodness became a household word, 
and he was beloved of all. And to the very- 
last he loved the little ones, and shared their 
pleasures, and sympathized with them in their 
griefs, but always repeating that same old 
story, beginning with " Once ther' wuz a 
littP boy." 

The curious part of it was this : that while 
he implied by his confidences to the children 
that his own little boy was dead, he never 
made that admission to others. On the con- 
trary, it was his wont, as I have said, to 
speak of little Abel as if that child still 
lived, and, humoring him in this conceit, it 
was the custom of the older ones to speak 
always of that child as if he lived and were 
known and beloved of all. In this custom 
the old man had great content and solace. 
For it was his wish that all he gave to and 
did for charity's sake should be known to 
come, not from him, but from Abel, his son, 



THE TOUCH IN THE HEAR T. 1 1 1 

and this was his express stipulation at all 
such times. I know whereof I speak, for I 
was one of those to whom the old man came 
upon a time and said : " My little boy — 
Abel, you know — will give me no peace till 
I do what he requires. He has this sum of 
money which he has saved in his bank, count 
it yourselves, it is $50,000, and he bids me 
give it to the townsfolk for a hospital, one for 
little lame boys and girls. And I have prom- 
ised him — my little boy, Abel, you know — 
that I will give $50,000 more. You shall 
have it when that hospital is built." Surely 
enough, in eighteen months' time the old man 
handed us the rest of the money, and when 
we told him that the place was to be called 
the Abel Dunklee hospital he was sorely dis- 
tressed, and shook his head, and said : " No, 
no, — not my name ! Call it the Little Abel 
hospital, for little Abel — my boy, you know 
— has done it all." 

The old man lived many years, — lived to 
hear tender voices bless him, and to see pale 
faces brighten at the sound of his footfall 



H2 THE TOUCH IN THE HEART. 



Yes, for many years the quaint, shuffling 
figure moved about our streets, and his hoarse 
but kindly voice — oh, very kindly now ! — 
was heard repeating to the children that 
pathetic old story of " Once ther' wuz a littl' 
boy." And where the dear old feet trod 
the grass grew greenest, and the sunbeams 
nestled. But at last there came a sum- 
mons for the old man, — a summons from 
away off yonder, — and the old man heard it 
and went thither. 

The doctor — himself hoary and stooping 
now — told me that toward the last Old 
Grampa Growly sunk into a sort of sleep, or 
stupor, from which they could not rouse him. 
For many hours he lay like one dead, but his 
thin, creased face was very peaceful, and 
there was no pain. Children tiptoed in with 
flowers, and some cried bitterly, while others 
— those who were younger — whispered to 
one another : " Hush, let us make no noise ; 
Old Grampa Growly is sleeping." 

At last the old man roused up. He had 
lain like one dead for many hours, but now 



THE TOUCH IN THE HEART. 113 

at last he seemed to wake of a sudden, and, 
seeing children about him, perhaps he fan- 
cied himself in that pleasant park, under the 
trees, where so very often he had told his one 
pathetic story to those little ones. Leastwise 
he made a feeble motion as if he would have 
them gather nearer, and, seeming to know 
his wish, the children came closer to him. 
Those who were nearest heard him say with 
the ineffable tenderness of old : " Once ther' 
wuz a littl' boy — " 

And with those last sweet words upon his 
lips, and with the touch in his heart, the old 
man went down into the Valley. 



VI. 



DANIEL AND THE DEVIL. 




)ANIEL was a very 
wretched man. As 
he sat with his head 
bowed upon his desk 
that evening he made 
up his mind that his 
life had been a failure. 
"I have labored long 
and diligently," said he to himself, " and al- 
though I am known throughout the city as 
an industrious and shrewd business-man, I 
am still a poor man, and shall probably con- 
tinue so to the end of my days unless — 
unless — " 

Here Daniel stopped and shivered. For 
a week or more he had been brooding over 



DANIEL AND THE DEVIL 115 

his unhappy lot. There seemed to be but 
one way out of his trouble, yet his soul re- 
volted from taking that step. That was why 
he stopped and shivered. 

" But," he argued, " I must do something ! 
My nine children are growing up into big 
boys and girls. They must have those 
advantages which my limited means will not 
admit of ! All my life so far has been pure, 
circumspect, and rigid ; poverty has at last 
broken my spirit. I give up the fight, — I 
am ready to sell my soul to the Devil ! " 

" The determination is a wise one," said a 
voice at Daniel's elbow. Daniel looked up 
and beheld a grim-visaged stranger in the 
chair beside him. The stranger was arrayed 
all in black, and he exhaled a distinct odor 
of sulphur. 

" Am I to understand," asked the stranger, 
" that you are prepared to enter into a league 
with the Devil ? " 

" Yes," said Daniel, firmly ; and he set his 
teeth together after the fashion of a man who 
is not to be moved from his purpose. 



n6 DANIEL AND THE DEVIL. 

" Then I am ready to treat with you," said 
the stranger. 

" Are you the Devil ? " asked Daniel, ey- 
ing the stranger critically. 

" No, but I am authorized to enter into 
contracts for him," explained the stranger. 
" My name is Beelzebub, and I am my mas- 
ter's most trusted agento" 

"Sir," said Daniel, "you must pardon me 
(for I am loath to wound your feelings), but 
one of the rules governing my career as a 
business-man has been to deal directly with 
principals, and never to trust to the offices 
of middlemen. The affair now in hand is 
one concerning the Devil and myself, and 
between us two and by us two only can the 
preliminaries be adjusted." 

" As it so happens," explained Beelzebub, 
" this is Friday, — commonly called hang- 
man's day, — and that is as busy a time in 
our particular locality as a Monday is in a 
laundry, or as the first of every month is at 
a book-keeper's desk. You can understand, 
perhaps, that this is the Devil's busy day ; 



DANIEL AND THE DEVIL 1x7 

therefore be content to make this deal with 
me, and you will find that my master will 
cheerfully accept any contract I may enter 
into as his agent and in his behalf." 

But no, — Daniel would not agree to this ; 
with the Devil himself, and only the Devil him- 
self, would he treat. So he bade Beelzebub 
go to the Devil and make known his wishes. 
Beelzebub departed, much chagrined. Pres- 
ently back came the Devil, and surely it was 
the Devil this time, — there could be no mis- 
take about it ; for he wore a scarlet cloak, 
and had cloven feet, and carried about with 
him as many suffocating smells as there 
are kinds of brimstone, sulphur, and assa- 
fcetida. 

The two talked over all Daniel's miseries ; 
the Devil sympathized with Daniel, and ever 
and anon a malodorous, gummy tear would 
trickle down the Devil's sinister nose and 
drop off on the carpet. 

" What you want is money," said the Devil. 
" That will give you the comfort and the 
contentment you crave." 



n8 DANIEL AND THE DEVIL. 

" Yes," said Daniel ; " it will give me every 
opportunity to do good." 

" To do good ! " repeated the Devil. " To 
do good, indeed ! Yes, it 's many a good 
time we shall have together, friend Daniel ! 
Ha, ha, ha ! " And the Devil laughed up- 
roariously. Nothing seemed more humorous 
than the prospect of " doing good " with the 
Devil's money ! But Daniel failed to see 
what the Devil was so jolly about. Daniel 
was not a humorist; he was, as we have 
indicated, a plain business-man. 

It was finally agreed that Daniel should 
sell his soul to the Devil upon condition that 
for the space of twenty-four years the Devil 
should serve Daniel faithfully, should pro- 
vide him with riches, and should do whatso- 
ever he was commanded to do ; then, at the 
end of the twenty-fourth year, Daniel's soul 
was to pass into the possession of the Devil, 
and was to remain there forever, without re- 
course or benefit of clergy. Surely a more 
horrible contract was never entered into ! 

" You will have to sign your name to this 



DANIEL AND THE DEVIL. no 

contract," said the Devil, producing a sheet 
of asbestos paper upon which all the terms 
of the diabolical treaty were set forth exactly. 

u Certainly," replied Daniel. " I have 
been a business-man long enough to know 
the propriety and necessity of written con 
tracts. And as for you, you must of course 
give a bond for the faithful execution of 
your part of this business." 

"That is something I have never done 
before," suggested the Devil. 

" I shall insist upon it," said Daniel, firmly. 
" This is no affair of sentiment ; it is strictly 
and coldly business ; you are to do certain 
service, and are to receive certain rewards 
therefor — " 

" Yes, your soul ! " cried the Devil, gleefully 
rubbing his callous hands together. " Your 
soul in twenty-four years ! " 

" Yes," said Daniel. " Now, no contract 
is good unless there is a quid pro quo." 

" That 's so," said the Devil, " so let 's get a 
lawyer to draw up the paper for me to sign." 

"Why a lawyer?" queried Daniel. "A 



120 DANIEL AND THE DEVIL 

contract is a simple instrument ; I, as a busi- 
ness-man, can frame one sufficiently binding." 

" But I prefer to have a lawyer do it," 
urged the Devil. 

"And / prefer to do it myself," said 
Daniel. 

When a business-man once gets his mind 
set, not even an Archimedean lever could stir 
it. So Daniel drew up the bond for the Devil 
to sign, and this bond specified that in case 
the Devil failed at any time during the next 
twenty-four years to do whatso Daniel com- 
manded him, then should the bond which the 
Devil held against Daniel become null and 
void, and upon that same day should a 
thousand and one souls be released forever 
from the Devil's dominion. The Devil winced ; 
he hated to sign this agreement, but he had 
to. An awful clap of thunder ratified the 
abominable treaty, and every black cat within 
a radius of a hundred leagues straightway 
fell to frothing and to yowling grotesquely. 

Presently Daniel began to prosper ; the 
Devil was a faithful slave, and he served 



DANIEL AND THE DEVIL 



Daniel so artfully that no person on earth 
suspected that Daniel had leagued with the 
evil one. Daniel had the finest house in the 
city, his wife dressed magnificently, and his 
children enjoyed every luxury wealth could 
provide. Still, Daniel was content to be 
known as a business-man ; he deported him- 
self modestly and kindly; he pursued with 
all his old-time diligence the trade which in 
earlier days he had found so unproductive of 
riches. His indifference to the pleasures 
which money put within his reach was pass- 
ing strange, and it caused the Devil vast 
uneasiness. 

" Daniel," said the Devil, one day, " you 're 
not getting out of this thing all the fun there 
is in it. You go poking along in the same 
old rut with never a suspicion that you have 
it in your power to enjcy every pleasure of 
human life. Why don't you break away from 
the old restraints ? Why don't you avail your- 
self of the advantages at your command ? " 

"I know what you're driving at," said 
Daniel, shrewdly, " Politics ! " 



122 DANIEL AND THE DEVIL. 

" No, not at all," remonstrated the Devil. 
" What I mean is fun, — gayety. Why not 
have a good time, Daniel ? " 

" But I am having a good time," said 
Daniel. " My business is going along all 
right, I am rich. I Ve got a lovely home ; 
my wife is happy ; my children are healthy and 
contented ; I am respected, — what more 
could I ask ? What better time could I 
demand ? " 

" You don't understand me," explained 
the Devil. " What I mean by a good time is 
that which makes the heart merry and keeps 
the soul youthful and buoyant, — wine, 
Daniel ! Wine and the theatre and pretty 
girls and fast horses and all that sort of 
happy, joyful life ! " 

" Tut, tut, tut ! " cried Daniel ; " no more 
of that, sir ! I sowed my wild oats in college. 
What right have I to think of such silly fol- 
lies, — I, at forty years of age, and a business- 
man too ? " 

So not even the Devil himself could per- 
suade Daniel into a life of dissipation. All 



DANIEL AND THE DEVIL. 123 

you who have made a study of the business- 
man will agree that of all human beings he 
is the hardest to swerve from conservative 
methods. The Devil groaned and began to 
wonder why he had ever tied up to a man 
like Daniel, — a business-man. 

Pretty soon Daniel developed an ambition. 
He wanted reputation, and he told the Devil 
so. The Devil's eyes sparkled, " At last," 
murmured the Devil, with a sigh of relief, — 
" at last ! " 

"Yes," said Daniel, " I want to be known 
far and wide. You must build a church for 
me " 

" What ! " shrieked the Devil. And the 
Devil's tail stiffened up like a sore thumb. 

"Yes," said Daniel, calmly; "you must 
build a church for me, and it must be the 
largest and the handsomest church in the 
city. The sittings shall be free, and you shall 
provide the funds for its support forever," 

The Devil frothed at his mouth, and blue 
fire issued from his ears and nostrils. He was 
the maddest devil ever seen on earth. 



124 DANIEL AND THE DEVIL. 

" I won't do it ! " roared the Devil. " Do 
you suppose I 'm going to spend my time 
building churches and stultifying myself just 
for the sake of gratifying your idle whims ? 
I won't do it, — never ! " 

" Then the bond I gave is null and void," 
said Daniel. 

" Take your old bond," said the Devil, 
petulantly. 

" But the bond you gave is operative," con- 
tinued Daniel. " So release the thousand 
and one souls you owe me when you refuse 
to obey me." 

" Oh, Daniel! " whimpered the Devil, " how 
can you treat me so ? Have n't I always 
been good to you? Haven't I given you 
riches and prosperity ? Does no sentiment 
of friendship — " 

" Hush," said Daniel, interrupting him. 
" I have already told you a thousand times 
that our relations were simply those of one 
business-man with another. It now behooves 
you to fulfil your part of our compact ; event- 
ually I shall fulfil mine. Come, now, to 



DANIEL AND THE DEVIL. 125 

business ! Will you or will you not keep 
your word and save your bond ? " 

The Devil was sorely put to his trumps. 
But when it came to releasing a thousand 
and one souls from hell, — ah, that staggered 
him! He had to build the church, and a 
noble one it was too. Then he endowed the 
church, and finally he built a parsonage; 
altogether it was a stupendous work, and 
Daniel got all the credit for it. The preacher 
whom Daniel installed in this magnificent 
temple was severely orthodox, and one of the 
first things he did was to preach a series of 
sermons upon the personality of the Devil, 
wherein he inveighed most bitterly against 
that person and his work. 

By and by Daniel made the Devil endow 
and build a number of hospitals, charity 
schools, free baths, libraries, and other insti- 
tutions of similar character. Then he made 
him secure the election of honest men to 
office and of upright judges to the bench. It 
almost broke the Devil's heart to do it, but 
the Devil was prepared to do almost anything 



126 DANIEL AND THE DEVIL 

else than forfeit his bond and give up those 
one thousand and one souls. By this time 
Daniel came to be known far and wide for 
his philanthropy and his piety. This grati- 
fied him of course ; but most of all he 
gloried in the circumstance that he was a 
business-man. 

" Have you anything for me to do to-day ? " 
asked the Devil, one morning. He had grown 
to be a very meek and courteous devil ; steady 
employment in righteous causes had chas- 
tened him to a degree and purged away some- 
what of the violence of his nature. On this 
particular morning he looked haggard and 
ill, — yes, and he looked, too, as blue as a 
whetstone. 

" I am not feeling robust," explained the 
DeviL " To tell the truth, I am somewhat 
ill." 

" I am sorry to hear it," said Daniel ; " but 
as I am not conducting a sanitarium, I can 
do nothing further than express my regret 
that you are ailing. Of course our business 
relations do not contemplate any interchange 



DANIEL AND THE DEVIL 127 

of sympathies ; still I '11 go easy with you 
to-day. You may go up to the house and look 
after the children ; see that they don't smoke 
cigarettes, or quarrel, or tease the cat, or do 
anything out of the way." 

Now that was fine business for the Devil to 
be in ; but how could the Devil help himself? 
He was wholly at Daniel's mercy. He went 
groaning about the humiliating task 

The crash came at last. It was when the 
Devil informed Daniel one day that he was n't 
going to work for him any more. 

" You have ruined my business," said the 
Devil, wearily. " A committee of imps waited 
upon me last night and told me that unless I 
severed my connection with you a permanent 
suspension of my interests down yonder would 
be necessitated. While I have been running 
around doing your insane errands my per- 
sonal business has gone to the dogs, — I 
would n't be at all surprised if I were to have 
to get a new plant altogether. Meanwhile 
my reputation has suffered ; I am not longer 
respected, and the number of my recruits is 



128 DANIEL AND THE DEVIL 

daily becoming smaller. I give up, — I can 
make no further sacrifice." 

" Then you are prepared to forfeit your 
bond?" asked Daniel. 

" Not by any means," replied the Devil. 
" I propose to throw the matter into the 
courts." 

" That will hardly be to your interest," said 
Daniel, " since, as you well know, we have 
recently elected honest men to the bench, 
and, as I recollect, most of our judges are 
members in good standing of the church we 
built some years ago ! " 

The Devil howled with rage. Then, pres- 
ently, he began to whimper. 

" For the last time," expostulated Daniel, 
" let me remind you that sentiment does not 
enter into this affair at all. We are simply 
two business parties co-operating in a busi- 
ness scheme. Our respective duties are ex- 
actly denned in the bonds we hold. You 
keep your contract and I '11 keep mine. Let 
me see, I still have a margin of thirteen 
years." 



DANIEL AND THE DEVIL. 129 

The Devil groaned and writhed. 

"They call me a dude," whimpered the 
Devil. 

" Who do ? " asked Daniel. 

" Beelzebub and the rest," said the Devil. 
" I have been trotting around doing pious 
errands so long that I 've lost all my sulphur- 
and-brimstone flavor, and now I smell like 
spikenard and myrrh." 

" Pooh ! " said Daniel. 

" Well, I do," insisted the Devil. " You 've 
humiliated me so that I hain't got any more 
ambition. Yes, Daniel, you 've worked me 
shamefully hard ! " 

" Well," said Daniel, " I have a very dis- 
tinct suspicion that when, thirteen years 
hence, I fall into your hands I shall not enjoy 
what might be called a sedentary life." 

The Devil plucked up at this suggestion. 
" Indeed you shall not," he muttered. 
" I '11 make it hot for you ! " 

" But come, we waste time," said Daniel. 
" I am a man of business and I cannot frit- 
ter away the precious moments parleying with 
9 



130 DANIEL AND THE DEVIL. 

you. I have important work for you. To- 
morrow is Sunday ; you are to see that all 
the saloons are kept closed." 

" I sha'n't, — I won't ! " yelled the Devil. 

" But you must," said Daniel, firmly. 

" Do you really expect me to do that f " 
roared the Devil. " Do you fancy that I am 
so arrant a fool as to shut off the very feed- 
ers whereby my hungry hell is supplied ? That 
would be suicidal ! " 

" I don't know anything about that," said 
Daniel, "I am a business-man, and by this 
business arrangement of ours it is explicitly 
stipulated — " 

" I don't care what the stipulations are ! " 
shrieked the Devil. " I 'm through with you, 
and may I be consumed by my own fires if 
ever again I have anything to do with a 
business-man ! " 

The upshot of it all was that the Devil 
forfeited his bond, and by this act Daniel 
was released from every obligation unto the 
Devil, and one thousand and one souls were 
ransomed from the torture of the infernaJ 
fires. 



VII. 
METHUSELAH. 



1H1I2C 




H 




Mk^W 








zzWM"^M. 







HE discussion now going 
on between our clergy- 
men and certain unbe- 
lievers touching the 
question of Cain and 
his wife will surely re- 
sult beneficially, for it 
will set everybody to 
reading his Bible more diligently. Still, the 
biography of Cain is one that we could never 
become particularly interested in ; in short, of 
all the Old Testament characters none other 
interests us so much as does Methuselah, the 
man who lived 969 years. Would it be pos- 
sible to find in all history another life at 
once so grand and so pathetic? One can 
get a faint idea of the awful magnitude of 



13 2 METHUSELAH. 

Methuselah's career by pausing to recollect 
that 969 years represent 9.69 centuries, 96 
decades, 11,628 months, 50,388 weeks, 353,928 
days, 8,494,272 hours, 521,656,320 minutes, 
and 36,299,879,200 seconds 1 

How came he to live so long ? Ah, that 
is easily enough explained. He loved life 
and the world. — both were beautiful to him. 
And one day he spoke his wish in words. 
" Oh, that I might live a thousand years ! " 
he cried. 

Then looking up straightway he beheld an 
angel, and the angel said : " Wouldst thou 
live a thousand years ? " 

And Methuselah answered him, saying: 
"As the Lord is my God, I would live a 
thousand years." 

" It shall be even so," said the angel; and 
then the angel departed out of his sight. So 
Methuselah lived on and on, as the angel 
had promised. 

How sweet a treasure the young Methu- 
selah must have been to his parents and to 
his doting ancestors ; with what tender solic- 



METHUSELAH. 133 

itude must the old folks have watched the 
child's progress from the innocence of his 
first to the virility of his later centuries. We 
can picture the happy reunions of the old 
Adam family under the domestic vines and 
fig-trees that bloomed near the Euphrates. 
When Methuselah was a mere toddler of 
nineteen years, Adam was still living, and so 
was his estimable wife ; the possibility is 
that the venerable couple gave young Methu- 
selah a birthday party at which (we can 
easily imagine) there were present these 
following, to-wit : Adam, aged 687 ; Seth, 
aged S57 1 Enos, aged 452 ; Cainan, aged 
362 ; Mahalaleel, aged 292 ; Jared, aged 
227 ; Enoch, aged 65, and his infant boy 
Methuselah, aged 19. Here were represented 
eight direct generations, and there were 
present, of course, the wives and daughters ; 
so that, on the whole, the gathering must 
have been as numerous as it was otherwise 
remarkable. Nowhere in any of the vistas 
of history, of romance, or of mythology were 
it possible to find a spectacle more impos- 



134 METHUSELAH. 

ing than that of the child Methuselah sur- 
rounded by his father Enoch, his grandfather 
Jared, his great-grandfather Mahalaleel, his 
great-great-grandfather Cainan, his great- 
great-great-grandfather Enos, his great- 
great-great-great-grandfather Seth, and his 
great - great - great - great - great - grandfather 
Adam, as well as by his great-great-great- 
great-great-grandmother Eve, and her femi- 
nine posterity for (say) four centuries ! How 
pretty and how kindly dear old grandma Eve 
must have looked on that gala occasion, at- 
tired, as she must have been, in all the quaint 
simplicity of that primeval period ; and how 
must the dear old soul have fretted through 
fear that little Methuselah would eat too 
many pawpaws, or drink too much goat's 
milk. It is a marvel, we think, that in spite 
of the indulgence and the petting in which 
he was reared, Methuselah grew to be a 
good, kind man. 

Profane historians agree that just about 
the time he reached the age of ninety-four 
Methuselah became deeply enamoured of a 



METHUSELAH. 135 

comely and sprightly damsel named Mizpah, 
— a young thing scarce turned seventy-six. 
Up to this period of adolescence his cautious 
father Enoch had kept Methuselah out of 
all love entanglements, and it is probable 
that he would not have approved of this 
affair with Mizpah had not Jared, the boy's 
grandfather, counselled Enoch to give the . 
boy a chance. But alas and alackaday for 
the instability of youthful affection! It 
befell in an evil time that there came over 
from the land of Nod a frivolous and gor- 
geously apparelled beau, who, with finely 
wrought phrases, did so fascinate the giddy 
Mizpah that incontinently she gave Methu- 
selah the mitten, and went with the dashing 
young stranger of 102 as his bride. 

This shocking blow so grievously affected 
Methuselah that for some time (that is to 
say, for a period of ninety-one years) he 
shunned female society. But having recov- 
ered somewhat from the bitterness of that 
great disappointment received in the callow- 
ness of his ninth decade, he finally met and 



I3 6 METHUSELAH. 

fell in love with Adah, a young woman of 
148, and her he married. The issue of this 
union was a boy whom they named Lamech, 
and this child from the very hour of his 
birth gave his father vast worriment, which, 
considering the disparity in their ages, is 
indeed most shocking of contemplation. 
The tableau of a father (aged 187) vainly 
coddling a collicky babe certainly does not 
call for our enthusiasm. Yet we presume to 
say that Methuselah bore his trials meekly, 
that he cherished and adored the baby, and 
that he spent weeks and months playing 
peek-a-boo and ride-a-cock-horse. In all our 
consideration of Methuselah we must remem- 
ber that the mere matter of time was of no 
consequence to him. 

Lamech grew to boyhood, involving his 
father in all those ridiculous complications 
which parents nowadays do not heed so 
much, but which must have been of vast an- 
noyance to a man of Methuselah's advanced 
age and proper notions. Whittling with the 
old gentleman's razor, hooking off from 



METHUSELAH. 137 

school, trampling down the neighbors' rowen, 
tracking mud into the front parlor — these 
were some of Lamech's idiosyncrasies, and 
of course they tormented Methuselah, who 
recalled sadly that boys were no longer what 
they used to be when he was a boy some 
centuries previous. But when he got to be 
182 years old Lamech had sowed all his wild 
oats, and it was then he married a clever 
young girl of 98, who bore him a son whom 
they called Noah. Now if Methuselah had 
been worried and plagued by Lamech, he 
was more than compensated therefor by this 
baby grandson whom he found to be, aside 
from all prejudices, the prettiest and the 
smartest child he had ever seen. Old father 
Adam, who was now turned of his ninth 
century, tottered over to see the baby, and 
he, too, allowed that it was an uncommonly 
bright child. And dear old grandma Eve 
declared that there was an expression about 
the upper part of the little Noah's face that 
reminded her very much of the soft-eyed boy 
she lost 800 years ago. And dear old grandma 



I3 8 METHUSELAH. 

Eve used to rock little Noah and sing to him, 
and cry softly to herself all the while. 

Now, in good time, Noah grew to lusty 
youth, and although he was, on the whole, a 
joy to his grandsire Methuselah, he developed 
certain traits and predilections that occa- 
sioned the old gentleman much uneasiness. 
At the tender age of 265 Noah exhibited a 
strange passion for aquatics, and while it was 
common for other boys of that time to divert 
themselves with 'the flocks and herds, with 
slingshots and spears, with music and danc- 
ing, Noah preferred to spend his hours float- 
ing toy -ships in the bayous of the Euphrates. 
Every day he took his little shittim-wood 
boats down to the water, tied strings to them, 
and let them float hither and thither on the 
crystal bosom of the tide. Naturally enough 
these practices worried the grandfather 
mightily. 

"May not the crocodiles compass him 
round about ? " groaned Methuselah. " May 
not behemoth prevail against him? Or, 
verily, it may befall that the waves shall de- 



METHUSELAH. 139 

vour him. Woe is me and lamentation unto 
this household if destruction come to him 
through the folly of his fathers ! " 

So Methuselah's age began to be full of 
care and trouble, and many a time he felt 
weary of living, and sometimes — yes, some- 
times — he wished he were dead. People in 
those times were not afraid to die ; they be- 
lieved in the second and better life, because 
God spoke with them and told them it 
should be. 

The last century of this good man's so- 
journ upon earth was particularly pathetic. 
His ancestors were all dead; he alone re- 
mained the last living reminiscence of a time 
that but for him would have been forgotten. 
Deprived of the wise counsels of his great- 
great-great-great-great-grandfather Adam and 
of the gentle admonitions of his great-great- 
great-great-great-grandmother Eve, Methu- 
selah felt not only lonesome but even in 
danger of wrong-doing, so precious to him 
had been the teachings of these worthy pro- 
genitors. And what particularly disturbed 



14° METHUSELAH. 

Methuselah were the dreadful changes that 
had taken place in society since he was a 
boy. Dress, speech, customs, and morals 
were all different now from what they used 
to be. 

When Methuselah was a boy, — ah, he re- 
membered it well, — people went hither and 
thither clad only in simple fig-leaf garb, and 
they were content therewith. 

When Methuselah was a boy, people spoke 
a plain, direct language, strong in its truth, 
its simplicity, and its honest vigor. 

When Methuselah was a boy, manners 
were open and unaffected, and morals were 
pure and healthy. 

But now all these things were changed. 
An evil called fashion had filled the minds of 
men and women with vanity. From the sin- 
ful land of Nod and from other pagan coun- 
tries came divers tradesmen with purples and 
linens and fine feathers, whereby a wicked 
pride was engendered, and from these sinful 
countries, too, came frivolous manners that 
supplanted the guileless etiquette of the past. 



METHUSELAH. 141 

Moreover, traffic and intercourse with the 
subtle heathen had corrupted and perverted 
the speech of Adam's time ; crafty phrases and 
false rhetorics had crept in, and the grand 
old Edenic idioms either were fast being de- 
based or had become wholly obsolete. Such 
new-fangled words as " eftsoon," " albeit," 
"wench," "soothly," "zounds," "whenas," 
and " sithence " had stolen into common 
usage, making more direct and simpler 
speech a jest and a byword. 

Likewise had prudence given way to ex- 
travagance, abstemiousness to intemperance, 
dignity to frivolity, and continence to lust ; 
so that by these evils was Methuselah griev- 
ously tormented, and it repented him full 
sore that he had lived to see such exceeding 
wickedness upon earth. But in the midst of 
all these follies did Methuselah maintain an 
upright and godly life, and continually did he 
bless God for that he had held him in the 
path of rectitude. 

Now when Methuselah was in the 964th 
summer of his sojourn he was called upon to 



142 METHUSELAH. 

mourn the death of tiis son Lamech, whom 
an inscrutable Providence had cut off in 
what in those days was considered the flower 
of a man's life, — namely, the eighth century 
thereof. Lamech's untimely decease was a 
severe blow to his doting father, who, forget- 
ting all his son's boyish indiscretions remem- 
bered now only Lamech's good and lovable 
traits and deeds. It is reasonable to suppose, 
however, that the old gentleman was some- 
what beguiled from his grief by the lively 
dispositions and playful antics of Lamech's 
grandsons, Noah's sons, and his own great- 
grandsons, — Shem, Ham, and Japheth, — 
who at this time had attained to the frolic- 
some ages of ninety-five, ninety-two, and 
ninety-one, respectively. These boys inher- 
ited from their father a violent penchant for 
aquatics, and scarcely a day passed that they 
did not paddle around the bayous and 
sloughs of the Euphrates in their gopher- 
wood canoes. 

" Gran'pa," Noah used to say, " the con- 
duct of those boys causes me constant vexa- 



METHUSELAH. 143 

tion. I have no time to follow them around, 
and I am haunted continually by the fear 
that they will be drowned, or that the croco- 
diles will get them if they don't watch out ! " 

But Methuselah would smiling answer: 
" Possess thy soul in patience and thy bowels 
in peace ; for verily is it not written ' boys will 
be boys ! ' " 

Now Shem, Ham, and Japheth were very 
fond of their great-grandpa, and to their 
credit be it said that next to paddling over 
the water privileges of the Euphrates they 
liked nothing better than to sit in the old gen- 
tleman's lap, and to hear him talk about old 
times. Marvellous tales he told them, too ; 
for his career of nine and a half centuries 
had been well stocked with incident, as one 
would naturally suppose. Howbeit, the ad- 
miration which these callow youths had for 
Methuselah was not shared by a large major- 
ity of the people then on earth. On the con- 
trary, we blush to admit it, Methuselah was 
held in very trifling esteem by his frivolous 
fellow-citizens, who habitually referred to him 



144 METHUSELAH. 

as an " old wayback," " a barnacle," an " old 
fogy," a "mossback," or a "garrulous dotard," 
and with singular irreverence they took de- 
light in twitting him upon his senility and in 
pestering him with divers new-fangled notions 
altogether distasteful, not to say shocking, to 
a gentleman of his years. 

It was perhaps, however, at the old settlers' 
picnics, which even then were of annual 
occurrence, that Methuselah most enjoyed 
himself ; for on these occasions he was given 
the place of prominence and he was deferred 
to in everything, since he antedated all the 
others by at least three centuries. The his- 
torians and the antiquarians of the time found 
him of much assistance to them in their 
labors, since he was always ready to provide 
them with dates touching incidents of the 
remote period from which he had come down 
unscathed. He remembered vividly how, 
when he was 186 years of age, the Euphrates 
had frozen over to a depth of seven feet ; the 
209th winter of his existence he referred to 
as " the winter of the deep snow ; " he re- 



METHUSELAH. 145 

membered that when he was a boy the women 
had more character than the women of these 
later years ; he had a vivid recollection of 
the great plague that prevailed in the city of 
Enoch during his fourth century ; he could 
repeat, word for word, the address of wel 
come his great-great-great-great-great grand- 
father Adam delivered to an excursion party 
that came over from the land of Nod one 
time when Methuselah was a mere child of 
eighty-seven, — oh, yes, poor old Methuselah 
was full of reminiscence, and having crowded 
an active career into the brief period of 969 
years, it can be imagined that ponderous 
tomes would not hold the tales he told when- 
ever he was encouraged. 

One day, however, Methuselah's grandson 
Noah took the old gentleman aside and 
confided into his ear-trumpet a very solemn 
secret which must have grieved the old gen- 
tleman immensely, for he gnashed his gums 
and wrung his thin, bony hands and groaned 
dolorously, 

"The end of all flesh is at hand," said 



146 METHUSELAH. 

Noah. "The earth is filled with violence 
through them, and God will destroy them 
with the earth. I will make an ark of gopher 
wood, the length thereof 300 cubits, the 
breadth of it 50 cubits, and the height of it 
30 cubits, and I will pitch it within and 
without with pitch. Into the ark will I 
come, and my sons and my wife, and my 
sons' wives, and certain living beasts shall 
come, and birds of the air, and we and they 
shall be saved. Come thou also, for thou 
art an austere man and a just." 

But as Methuselah sate alone upon his 
couch that night he thought of his life : how 
sweet it had been, — how that, despite the 
evil now and then, there had been more of 
happiness than of sorrow in it. He even 
forgot the wickedness of the world and re- 
membered only its good and its sunshine, 
its kindness and its love. He blessed God 
for it all, and he prayed for the death-angel 
to come to him ere he beheld the destruction 
of all he so much loved. 

Then the angel came and spread his 
shadow about the old man. 



METHUSELAH. 14 7 

And the angel said : " Thy prayer is 
heard, and God doth forgive thee the score- 
and-ten years of the promised span of thy 
life." 

And Methuselah gathered up his feet into 
the bed, and prattling of the brooks, he fell 
asleep ; and so he slept with his fathers. 



VIII. v 

FELICE AND PETIT-POULAIN. 




HE name was singularly 
appropriate, for as- 
suredly Felice was the 
happiest of all four- 
footed creatures. Her 
nature was gentle ; she 
was obedient, long-suf- 
fering, kind. She had 
known what it was to toil and to bear bur- 
dens ; sometimes she had suffered from hun- 
ger and from thirst ; and before she came 
into the possession of Jacques she had been 
beaten, for Pierre, her former owner, was a 
hard master. But Felice was always a kind, 
faithful, and gentle creature ; presumably that 
was why they named her that pretty name, 
Felice. She may not have been happy when 



FELICE AND PET1T-POULAIN. 149 

Pierre owned and overworked and starved 
and beat her ; that does not concern us now, 
for herein it is to tell of that time when she 
belonged to Jacques, and Jacques was a 
merciful man. 

Jacques was a farmer; he lived a short 
distance from Cinquille, which, as you are 
probably aware, is a town of considerable 
importance upon what used to be the boun- 
dary line between France and Germany. The 
country round about is devoted to agriculture. 
You can fancy that, with its even roads, 
leafy woods, quiet lanes, velvety paddocks, 
tall hedges, and bountiful fields, this country 
was indeed as pleasant a home as Felice — 
or, for that matter, any other properly minded 
horse — could hope for. Toward the southern 
horizon there were hills that looked a grayish 
blue from a distance ; upon these hills were 
vineyards, and the wine that came therefrom 
is very famous wine, as your uncle, if he be 
a club man, will very truly assure you. 
There was a pretty little river that curled 
like a silver snake through the fertile 



150 FELICE AND PETIT-POULAIN. 

meadows, and lost its way among the hills, and 
there were many tiny brooks that scampered 
across lots and got tangled up with that 
pretty little river in most bewildering fashion. 
So, as you can imagine, this was a fair coun- 
try, and you do not wonder that, with so 
merciful a master as Jacques, our friend Felice 
was happy- 

But what perfected her happiness was the 
coming of her little colt, as cunning and as 
blithe a creature as ever whisked a tail or 
galloped on four legs. I do not know why 
they called him by that name, but Petit- 
Poulain was what they called him, and that 
name seemed to please Felice, for when far- 
mer Jacques came thrice a day to the stile 
and cried, " Petit-Poulain, petit, petit, Petit- 
Poulain ! " the kind old mother would look 
up fondly, and, with doting eyes, watch her 
dainty little colt go bounding toward his 
calling master. And he was indeed a lovely 
little fellow. The cur£, the holy pere Fran- 
cois, predicted that in due time that colt 
would make a great name for himself and a 



FELICE AND PE T1T-POULAIN. 1 5 I 

great fortune for his owner. The holy pere 
knew whereof he spake, for in his youth he 
had tasted of the sweets of Parisian life, and 
upon one memorable occasion had success- 
fully placed ten francs upon the winner of 
le grand prix. We can suppose that Felice 
thought well of the holy pere. He never 
came down the road that she did not thrust 
her nose through the hedge and give a mild 
whinny of recognition, as if she fain would 
say : " Pray stop a moment and see Petit- 
Poulain and his old mother I " 

What happy days those were for Felice 
and her darling colt. With what tenderness 
they played together in the paddock; or, 
when the sky was overcast and a storm came 
on, with what solicitude would the old mother 
lead the way into the thatched stable, where 
there was snug protection against the threat- 
ening element. There are those who say 
that none but human-kind is immortal, — 
that none but man has a soul. I do not 
make or believe that claim. There is that 
within me which tells me that no thing in 



152 FELICE AND PETIT-POULAIN. 

this world and life of ours which has felt the 
grace of maternity shall utterly perish, And 
this I say in all reverence, and with the hope 
that I offend neither God nor man. 

You are to know that old Felice's devo- 
tion to Petit-Poulain was human in its ten- 
derness, As readily, as gladly, and as surely 
as your dear mother would lay down her life 
for you would old Felice have yielded up her 
life for her innocent, blithe darling. So old 
Felice was happy that pleasant time in that 
fair country, and Petit-Poulain waxed hale 
and evermore blithe and beautiful, 

Happy days, too, were those for that peace- 
ful country and the other dwellers therein. 
There was no thought of evil there; the 
seasons were propitious, the vineyards 
thrived, the crops were bountiful ; as far as 
eye could see all was prosperity and content- 
ment. But one day the holy Father Fran- 
cois came hurrying down the road, and it 
was too evident that he brought evil tidings. 
Felice thought it very strange that he paid 
no heed to her when, as was her wont, she 



FELICE AND PETIT-POULAIN. 153 

thrust her nose through the hedge and gave 
a mild whinny of welcome. Anon she saw 
that he talked long and earnestly with her 
master Jacques, and presently she saw that 
Jacques went into the cottage and came 
again therefrom with his wife Justine and 
kissed her, and then went away with Pere 
Francois toward the town off yonder. Felice 
saw that Justine was weeping, and with never 
a suspicion of impending evil, she wondered 
why Justine should weep when all was so 
prosperous and bright and fair and happy 
about her. Felice saw and wondered, and 
meanwhile Petit-Poulain scampered gayly 
about that velvety paddock. 

That night the vineyard hills, bathed in 
the mellow grace of moonlight, saw a sight 
they had never seen before. From the east 
an army came riding and marching on, — an 
army of strange, determined men, speaking a 
language before unheard in that fair country 
and threatening things of which that peace- 
ful valley had never dreamed. You and I, 
of course, know that these were the Germans 



154 FELICE AND PETIT-POULAIN. 

advancing upon France, — a nation of im- 
mortals eager to destroy the possessions and 
the human lives of fellow-immortals ! But 
old Felice, hearing the din away off yonder, — 
the unwonted noise of cavalry and infantry 
advancing with murderous intent, — she did 
not understand it all, she did not even sus- 
pect the truth. You cannot wonder, for what 
should a soulless beast know of the noble, 
the human privilege of human slaughter? 
Old Felice heard that strange din, and in- 
stinct led her to coax her little colt from the 
pleasant paddock into that snug and secure 
retreat, the thatched stable, and there, in the 
early morning, they found her. Petit-Poulain 
pulling eagerly at her generous dugs. 

Those who came riding up were strangers 
in those parts; they were ominously ac- 
coutred and they spoke words that old Felice 
had never heard before. Yes, as you have 
already guessed, they were German cavalry- 
men. A battle was impending, and they 
needed more horses. 

" Old enough ; but in lieu of a better, she 



FELICE AND PETIT-POULAIN 15 5 

will do." That was what they said. They 
approached her carefully, for they suspected 
that she might be vicious. Poor old Felice, 
she had never harmed even the flies that 
pestered her. " They are going to put me at 
the plough," she thought. " It is a long time 
since I did work of any kind, — nothing, in 
fact, since Petit-Poulain was born. Poor 
Petit-Poulain will miss me ; but I will soon 
return." With these thoughts she turned her 
head fondly and caressed her pretty colt. 

" The colt must be tied in the stall or he 
will follow her." So said the cavalrymen. 
They threw a rope about his neck and made 
him fast in the stable. Petit-Poulain was 
very much surprised, and he remonstrated 
vainly with his fierce little heels. 

They put a halter upon old Felice. Justine, 
the farmer's wife, met them in the yard, and 
reproached them wildly in French. They 
laughed boisterously, and answered her in 
German. Then they rode away, leading old 
Felice, who kept turning her head and whin- 
nying pathetically, for she was thinking of 
Petit-Poulain. 



156 FELICE AND PETIT-POULAIN. 

Of peace I know and can speak, — of 
peace, with its solace of love, plenty, honor, 
fame, happiness, and its pathetic tragedy of 
poverty, heartache, disappointment, tears, 
bereavement. Of war I know nothing, and 
never shall know ; it is not in my heart or 
for my hand to break that law which God 
enjoined from Sinai and Christ confirmed in 
Galilee. I do not know of war, nor can I 
tell you of that battle which men with im- 
mortal souls fought one glorious day in a 
fertile country with vineyard hills all round 
about. But when night fell there was deso- 
lation everywhere and death. The Eden was 
a wilderness ; the winding river was choked 
with mangled corpses; shell and shot had 
mowed down the acres of waving grain, the 
exuberant orchards, the gardens and the 
hedgerows ; black, charred ruins, gaunt and 
ghostlike, marked the spots where homes had 
stood. The vines had been cut and torn 
away, and the despoiled hills seemed to 
crouch down like bereaved mothers under 
the pitiless gaze of the myriad eyes of 
heaven. 



FELICE AND PETIT-POULAIN. 15 7 

The victors went their way; a greater 
triumph was in store for them ; a mighty cap- 
ital was to be besieged ; more homes were to 
be desolated, — more blood shed, more hearts 
broken. So the victors went their way, their 
hands red and their immortal souls elated. 

In the early dawn a horse came galloping 
homeward. It is Felice, old Felice, rider- 
less, splashed with mud, wild-eyed, sore with 
fatigue! Felice, Felice, what horrors hast 
thou not seen ! If thou couldst speak, if 
that tongue of thine could be loosed, what 
would it say of those who, forgetful of their 
souls, sink lower than the soulless brutes ! 
Better it is thou canst not speak ; the anguish 
in thine eyes, the despair in thy honest heart, 
the fear, the awful fear in thy mother breast, 
— what tongue could utter them ? 

Adown the road she galloped, — the same 
road she had traversed, perhaps, a thousand 
times before, yet it was so changed now she 
hardly knew it. Twenty-four hours had ruth- 
lessly levelled the noble trees, the hedgerows, 
and the fields of grain. Twenty-four hours 



158 FELICE AND PETIT-POULAIN. 

of battle had done all this and more. In all 
those ghastly hours, one thought had haunted 
Felice ; one thought alone, — the thought of 
Petit-Poulain ! She pictured him tied in that 
far-away stall, wondering why she did not 
come. He was hungry, she knew ; her dugs 
were full of milk and they pained her ; how 
sweet would be her relief when her Petit- 
Poulain broke his long fast. Petit-Poulain, 
Petit-Poulain, Petit-Poulain, — this one 
thought and this alone had old Felice 
throughout those hours of battle and of 
horror. 

Could this have been the farm-house ? It 
was a ruin now. Shells had torn it apart, 
Where was the good master Jacques ; had 
he gone with the cure to the defence of the 
town ? And Justine, — where was she ? 
Bullets had cut away the rose-trees and the 
smoke-bush ; the garden was no more. The 
havoc, the desolation, was complete. The 
cote, which had surmounted the pole around 
which an ivy twined, had been swept away. 
The pigeons now circled here and there be- 



FELICE AND PETIT-POULAIN. 159 

wildered ; wondering, perhaps, why Justine 
did not come and call to them and feed 
them. 

To this seared, scarred spot came old 
Felice. He that had ridden her into battle 
lay with his face downward near those dis- 
tant vineyard hills. His blood had stained 
Felice's neck ; a bullet had grazed her flank, 
but that was a slight wound, — riderless, she 
turned and came from the battlefield and 
sought her Petit-Poulain once again. 

Hard by the ruins of cottage, of garden, 
and of cote, she came up standing ; she was 
steaming and breathless. She rolled her eyes 
wildly around, — she looked for the stable 
where she had left Petit-Poulain. She trem- 
bled as if an overwhelming apprehension of 
disaster suddenly possessed her. She gave a 
whinny, pathetic in its tenderness. She was 
calling Petit-Poulain. But there was no 
answer. 

Petit-Poulain lay dead in the ruins of the 
stable. His shelter had not escaped the fury 
of the battle. He could not run away, for 



160 FELICE AND PETIT-POULAIN. 

they had tied him fast when they carried his 
old mother off. So now he lay amid that 
debris, his eyes half open in death and his 
legs stretched out stark and stiff. 

And old Felice, — her udder bursting with 
the maternal grace he never again should 
know, and her heart breaking with the agony 
of sudden and awful bereavement, — she 
staggered, as if blinded by despair, toward 
that vestige of her love, and bent over him 
and caressed her Petit-Poulain. 



IX. 

THE RIVER. 




NCE upon a time a 
little boy came, during 
his play, to the bank 
of a river. The waters 
of the river were very 
dark and wild, and 
there was so black a 
cloud over the river 
that the little boy could not see the further 
shore. An icy wind came up from the cloud 
and chilled the little boy, and he trembled 
with cold and fear as the wind smote his 
cheeks and ran its slender, icicle fingers 
through his yellow curls. An old man sat 
on the bank of the river ; he was very, very 
old; his head and shoulder were covered 
with a black mantle; and his beard was 
white as snow. 



1 62 THE RIVER. 



" Will you come with me, little boy ? " 
asked the old man. 

" Where ? " inquired the little boy. 

" To yonder shore," replied the old man. 

" Oh, no ; not to that dark shore," said 
the little boy. " I would be afraid to go." 

" But think of the sunlight always there," 
said the old man, " the birds and flowers ; 
and remember there is no pain, nor anything 
of that kind to vex you." 

The little boy looked and saw the dark 
cloud hanging over the waters, and he felt 
the cold wind come up from the river ; more- 
over, the sight of the strange man terrified 
him. So, hearing his mother calling him, 
the little boy ran back to his home, leaving 
the old man by the river alone. 

Many years after that time the little boy 
came again to the river ; but he was not a 
little boy now, — he was a big, strong man. 

" The river is the same," said he ; " the 
wind is the same cold, cutting wind of ice, 
and the same black cloud obscures yonder 
shore. I wonder where the strange old man 
can be." 



THE RIVER. 163 



" I am he," said a solemn voice. 

The man turned and looked on him who 
spoke, and he saw a warrior clad in black 
armor and wielding an iron sword. 

" No, you are not he ! " cried the man. 
" You are a warrior come to do me harm." 

" I am indeed a warrior," said the other 
" Come with me across the river." 

" No," replied the man, " I will not go with 
you. Hark, I hear the voices of my wife 
and children calling to me, — I will return 
to them!" 

The warrior strove to hold him fast and 
bear him across the river to the yonder 
shore, but the man prevailed against him 
and returned to his wife and little ones, and 
the warrior was left upon the river bank. 

Then many years went by and the strong 
man became old and feeble. He found no 
pleasure in the world, for he was weary of 
living. His wife and children were dead, and 
the old man was alone. So one day in those 
years he came to the bank of the river for the 
third time, and he saw that the waters had 



1 64 THE RJFER. 



become quiet and that the wind which came 
up from the river was warm and gentle and 
smelled of flowers ; there was no dark cloud 
overhanging the yonder shore, but in its 
place was a golden mist through which the 
old man could see people walking on the 
yonder shore and stretching out their hands 
to him, and he could hear them calling him 
by name. Then he knew they were the 
voices of his dear ones. 

" I am weary and lonesome," cried the 
old man. "All have gone before me: 
father, mother, wife, children, — all whom 
I have loved. I see them and hear them 
on yonder shore, but who will bear me to 
them ? " 

Then a spirit came in answer to this cry. 
But the spirit was not a strange old man nor 
yet an armored warrior ; but as he came to 
the river's bank that day he was a gentle 
angel, clad in white; his face was very 
beautiful, and there was divine tenderness 
in his eyes. 

"Rest thy head upon my bosom," said 



THE RIVER. 165 



the angel, " and I will bear thee across the 
river to those who call thee." 

So, with the sweet peace of a little child 
sinking to his slumbers, the old man drooped 
in the arms of the angel and was borne across 
the river to those who stood upon the yonder 
shore and called. 



X. 

FRANZ ABT. 




ANY years ago a young 
composer was sitting 
in a garden. All 
around bloomed beau- 
tiful roses, and through 
the gentle evening 
air the swallows flit- 
ted, twittering cheerily. 
The young composer neither saw the roses 
nor heard the evening music of the swallows ; 
his heart was full of sadness and his eyes 
were bent wearily upon the earth before him. 
" Why," said the young composer, with a 
sigh, " should I be doomed to all this bit- 
ter disappointment ? Learning seems vain, 
patience is mocked, — fame is as far from 
me as ever." 



FRANZ ABT. 167 

The roses heard his complaint. They bent 
closer to him and whispered, " Listen to us, — 
listen to us." And the swallows heard him, 
too, and they flitted nearer him ; and they, 
too, twittered, " Listen to us, — listen to us." 
But the young composer was in no mood to 
be beguiled by the whisperings of the roses 
and the twitterings of the birds ; with a 
heavy heart and sighing bitterly he arose and 
went his way. 

It came to pass that many times after that 
the young composer came at evening and sat 
in the garden where the roses bloomed and 
the swallows twittered ; his heart was always 
full of disappointment, and often he cried 
out in anguish against the cruelty of fame 
that it came not to him. And each time the 
roses bent closer to him, and the swallows 
flew lower, and there in the garden the sweet 
flowers and little birds cried, " Listen to us, 
— listen to us, and we will help you." 

And one evening the young composer, hear- 
ing their gentle pleadings, smiled sadly, and 
said : " Yes, I will listen to you. What have 
you to say, pretty roses ? " 



1 68 FRANZ ABT. 



" Make your songs of us," whispered the 
roses, — " make your songs of us." 

" Ha, ha ! " laughed the composer. " A 
song of the roses would be very strange, in- 
deed ! No, sweet flowers, — it is fame I 
seek, and fame would scorn even the beauty 
of your blushes and the subtlety of your 
perfumes." 

" You are wrong," twittered the swallows, 
flying lower. " You are wrong, foolish man. 
Make a song for the heart, — make a song of 
the swallows and the roses, and it will be 
sung forever, and your fame will never die." 

But the composer laughed louder than be- 
fore ; surely there never had been a stranger 
suggestion than that of the roses and the 
swallows! Still, in his chamber that night 
the composer thought of what the swallows 
had said, and in his dreams he seemed to 
hear the soft tones of the roses pleading 
with him. Yes, many times thereafter the 
composer recalled what the birds and flowers 
had said, but he never would ask them as he 
sat in the garden at evening how he could 



FRANZ ABT. 169 



make the heart-song of which they chattered. 
And the summer sped swiftly by, and one 
evening when the composer came into the 
garden the roses were dead, and their leaves 
lay scattered on the ground. There were no 
swallows fluttering in the sky, and the nests 
under the eaves were deserted. Then the 
composer knew his little friends were beyond 
recall, and he was oppressed by a feeling of 
loneliness. The roses and the swallows had 
grown to be a solace to the composer, had 
stolen into his heart all unawares, — now that 
they were gone, he was filled with sadness. 

" I will do as they counselled," said he ; 
" I will make a song of them, — a song of 
the swallows and the roses. I will forget my 
greed for fame while I write in memory of 
my little friends." 

Then the composer made a song of the 
swallows and the roses, and, while he wrote, 
it seemed to him that he could hear the twit- 
tering of the little birds all around him, and 
scent the fragrance of the flowers, and his 
soul was warmed with a warmth he had 



170 FRANZ ABT. 

never felt before, and his tears fell upon his 
manuscript. 

When the world heard the song which the 
composer had made of the swallows and the 
roses, it did homage to his genius. Such 
sentiment, such delicacy, such simplicity, such 
melody, such heart, such soul, — ah, there was 
no word of rapturous praise too good for the 
composer now : fame, the sweetest and most 
enduring kind of fame, had come to him. 

And the swallows and the roses had done 
it all. Their subtle influences had filled the 
composer's soul with a great inspiration, — 
by means like this God loves to speak to the 
human heart. 

" We told you so," whispered the roses 
when they came again in the spring. " We 
told you that if you sang of us the world 
would love your song." 

Then the swallows, flying back from the 
south, twittered: "We told you so; sing 
the songs the heart loves, and you will live 
forever." 

"Ah, dear ones," said the composer, 



FRANZ ABT. 171 

softly ; " you spoke the truth. He who seeks 
a fame that is immortal has only to reach 
and abide in the human heart." 

The lesson he learned of the swallows and 
the roses he never forgot. It was the inspira- 
tion and motive of a long and beautiful life. 
He left for others that which some called a 
loftier ambition. He was content to sit 
among the flowers and hear the twitter of 
birds and make songs that found an echo in 
all breasts. Ah, there was such a beautiful 
simplicity, — such a sweet wisdom in his 
life ! And where'er the swallows flew, and 
where'er the roses bloomed, he was famed 
and revered and beloved, and his songs 
were sung. 

Then his hair grew white at last, and his 
eyes were dim and his steps were slow. A 
mortal illness came upon him, and he knew 
that death was nigh. 

" The winter has been long," said he, 
wearily. " Open the window and raise me 
up that I may see the garden, for it must be 
that spring is come." 



172 FR4NZ ABT. 

It was indeed spring, but the roses had not 
yet bloomed. The swallows were chattering 
in their nests under the eaves or flitting in 
the mild, warm sky. 

" Hear them," he said faintly. " How 
sweetly they sing. But alas ! where are the 
roses ? " 

Where are the roses ? Heaped over thee, 
dear singing heart ; blooming on thy quiet 
grave in the Fatherland, and clustered and 
entwined all in and about thy memory, which 
with thy songs shall go down from heart to 
heart to immortality. 



XI. 



MISTRESS MERCILESS. 




H I S is to tell of our little 
Mistress Merciless, 
who for a season 
abided with us, but is 
now and forever gone 
from us unto the far- 
off land of Ever-Plai- 
sance. The tale is 
soon told ; for it were not seemly to speak 
all the things that are in one's heart when 
one hath to say of a much-beloved child, 
whose life here hath been shortened so that, 
in God's wisdom and kindness, her life shall 
be longer in that garden that bloometh far 
away. 

You shall know that all did call her Mis- 
tress Merciless; but her mercilessness was 



174 MISTRESS MERCILESS 

of a sweet, persuasive kind : for with the 
beauty of her face and the music of her 
voice and the exceeding sweetness of her 
virtues was she wont to slay all hearts ; and 
this she did unwittingly, for she was a little 
child. And so it was in love that we did 
call her Mistress Merciless, just as it was in 
love that she did lord it over all our hearts. 

Upon a time walked she in a full fair gar- 
den, and there went with her an handmaiden 
that we did call in merry wise the Queen of 
Sheba; for this handmaiden was in sooth 
no queen at all, but a sorry and ill-favored 
wench ; but she was assotted upon our little 
Mistress Merciless and served her diligently, 
and for that good reason was vastly beholden 
of us all. Yet, in a jest, we called her the 
Queen of Sheba ; and I make a venture that 
she looked exceeding fair in the eyes of our 
little Mistress Merciless : for the eyes of 
children look not upon the faces but into the 
hearts and souls of others. Whilst these 
two walked in the full fair garden at that 
time they came presently unto an arbor 



MISTRESS MERCILESS, 175 

wherein there was a rustic seat, which was 
called the Siege of Restfulness ; and here- 
upon sate a little sick boy that, from his 
birth, had been lame, so that he could not 
play and make merry with other children, 
but was wont to come every day into this 
full fair garden and content himself with the 
companionship of the flowers. And, though 
he was a little lame boy, he never trod upon 
those flowers ; and even had he done so, 
methinks the pressure of those crippled feet 
had been a caress, for the little lame boy 
was filled with the spirit of love and ten- 
derness. As the tiniest, whitest, shrinking 
flower exhaleth the most precious perfume, 
so in and from this little lame boy's life there 
came a grace that was hallowing in its 
beauty. 

Since they never before had seen him, 
they asked him his name ; and he answered 
them that of those at home he was called 
Master Sweetheart, a name he could not 
understand: for surely, being a cripple, he 
must be a very sorry sweetheart ; yet, that he 



176 MISTRESS MERCILESS, 

was a sweetheart unto his mother at least 
he had no doubt, for she did love to hold 
him in her lap and call him by that name ; 
and many times when she did so he saw 
that tears were in her eyes, — a proof, she 
told him when he asked, that Master Sweet- 
heart was her sweetheart before all others 
upon earth. 

It befell that our little Mistress Merciless 
and Master Sweetheart became fast friends, 
and the Queen of Sheba was handmaiden 
to them both ; for the simple, loyal creature 
had not a mind above the artless prattle of 
childhood, and the strange allegory of the 
lame boy's speech rilled her with awe, even as 
the innocent lisping of our little Mistress 
Merciless delighted her heart and came with- 
in the comprehension of her limited under- 
standing. So each day, when it was fair, 
these three came into the full fair garden, and 
rambled there together ; and when they were 
weary they entered into the arbor and sate 
together upon the Siege of Restfulness. Wit 
ye well there was not a flower or a tree or a 



MISTRESS MERCILESS. 177 

shrub or a bird in all that full fair garden 
which they did not know and love, and in 
very sooth every flower and tree and shrub 
and bird therein did know and love them. 

When they entered into the arbor, and 
sate together upon the Siege of Restfulness, 
it was Master Sweetheart's wont to tell them 
of the land of Ever-Plaisance, for it was a 
conceit of his that he journeyed each day 
nearer and nearer to that land, and that his 
journey thitherward was nearly done. How 
came he to know of that land I cannot say, 
for I do not know; but I am fain to believe 
that, as he said, the exceeding fair angels 
told him thereof when by night, as he lay 
sleeping, they came singing, and with caresses 
to his bedside. 

I speak now of a holy thing, therefore I 
speak truth when I say that while little chil- 
dren lie sleeping in their beds at night it 
pleaseth God to send His exceeding fair 
angels with singing and caresses to bear 
messages of His love unto those little sleep- 
ing children. And I have seen those exceed- 



i 78 MISTRESS MERCILESS. 

ing fair angels bend with folded wings over 
the little cradles and the little beds, and kiss 
those little sleeping children and whisper 
God's messages of love to them, and I knew 
that those messages were full of sweet tid- 
ings ; for, even though they slept, the little 
children smiled. This have I seen, and 
there is none who loveth little children that 
will deny the truth of this thing which I have 
now solemnly declared. 

Of that land of Ever-Plaisance was our 
little Mistress Merciless ever fain to hear 
tell. But when she beset the rest of us to 
speak thereof we knew not what to say other 
than to confirm such reports as Master 
Sweetheart had already made. For when 
it cometh to knowing of that far-off land, — 
ah me, who knoweth more than the veriest 
little child ? And oftentimes within the 
bosom of a little, helpless, fading one there 
bloometh a wisdom which sages cannot com- 
prehend. So when she asked us we were 
wont to bid her go to Master Sweetheart, 
for he knew the truth and spake it. 



MISTRESS MERCILESS. 179 

It is now to tell of an adventure which on 
a time befell in that full fair garden of which 
you have heard me speak. In this garden 
lived many birds of surpassing beauty and 
most rapturous song, and among them was 
one that they called Joyous, for that he did 
•ever carol forth so joyously, it mattered not 
what the day soever might be. This bird 
Joyous had his home in the top of an ex- 
ceeding high tree, hard by the pleasant arbor, 
and here did he use to sit at such times as 
the little people came into that arbor, and 
then would he sing to them such songs as 
befitted that quiet spot, and them that came 
thereto. But there was a full evil cat that 
dwelt near by, and this cruel beast found no 
pleasure in the music that Joyous did make 
continually ; nay, that music filled this full 
evil cat with a wicked thirst for the blood of 
that singing innocent, and she had no peace 
for the malice that was within her seeking to 
devise a means whereby she might compre- 
hend the bird Joyous to her murderous in- 
tent. Now you must know that it was the 



180 MISTRESS MERCILESS. 

wont of our little Mistress Merciless and of 
Master Sweetheart to feed the birds in that 
fair garden with such crumbs as they were 
suffered to bring with them into the arbor, 
and at such times would those birds fly 
down with grateful twitterings and eat of 
those crumbs upon the greensward round 
about the arbor. Wit ye well, it was a 
merry sight to see those twittering birds 
making feast upon the good things which 
those children brought, and our little Mis- 
tress Merciless and little Master Sweetheart 
had sweet satisfaction therein. But on a 
day, whilst thus those twittering birds made 
great feasting, lo ! on a sudden did that 
full evil cat whereof I have spoken steal 
softly from a thicket, and with one hideous 
bound make her way into the very midst 
of those birds and seize upon that bird 
Joyous, that was wont to sing so merrily 
from the tree hard by the arbor. Oh, there 
was a mighty din and a fearful fluttering, 
and the rest flew swiftly away, but Joyous 
could not do so, because the full evil cat 



MISTRESS MERCILESS, 181 

held him in her cruel fangs and claws. And 
I make no doubt that Joyous would speedily 
have met his death, but that with a wrathful 
cry did our little Mistress Merciless hasten 
to his rescue. And our little Mistress be- 
labored that full evil cat with Master Sweet- 
heart's crutch, until that cruel beast let 
loose her hold upon the fluttering bird and 
was full glad to escape with her aching 
bones into the thicket again. So it was 
that Joyous was recovered from death ; but 
even then might it have fared ill with him, 
had they not taken him up and dressed his 
wounds and cared for him until duly he was 
well again. And then they released him to 
do his plaisance, and he returned to his 
home in the tree hard by the arbor and 
there he sung unto those children more 
sweetly than ever before ; for his heart was 
full of ^gratitude to our little Mistress Merci- 
less and Master Sweetheart. 

Now, of the dolls that she had in goodly 
number, that one which was named Beautiful 
did our little Mistress Merciless love best. 



182 MISTRESS MERCILESS. 

Know well that the doll Beautiful had come 
not from oversea, and was neither of wax nor 
of china ; but she was right ingeniously con- 
structed of a bed-key that was made of 
wood, and unto the top of this bed-key had 
the Queen of Sheba superadded a head with 
a fair face, and upon the body and the arms 
of the key had she hung passing noble rai- 
ment Unto this doll Beautiful was our 
little Mistress Merciless vastly beholden, 
and she did use to have the doll Beautiful 
lie by her side at night whilst she slept, and 
whithersoever during the day she went, there 
also would she take the doll Beautiful, too, 
Much sorrow and lamentation, therefore, 
made our little Mistress Merciless when on 
an evil day the doll Beautiful by chance fell 
into the fishpond, and was not rescued there- 
from until one of her beauteous eyes had 
been devoured of the envious water ; so that 
ever thereafter the doll Beautiful had but 
one eye, and that, forsooth, was grievously 
faded. And on another evil day came a 
monster ribald dog pup and seized upon the 



MISTRESS MERCILESS. 183 

doll Beautiful whilst she reposed in the 
arbor, and bore her away, and romped bois- 
terously with her upon the sward, and tore 
off her black-thread hair, and sought to 
destroy her wholly, which surely he would 
have done but for the Queen of Sheba, who 
made haste to rescue the doll Beautiful, and 
chastise that monster ribald dog pup. 

Therefore, as you can understand, the 
time was right busily spent. The full fair 
garden, with its flowers and the singing birds 
and the gracious arbor and the Siege of 
Restfulness found favor with those children, 
and amid these joyous scenes did Master 
Sweetheart have to tell each day of that 
far-off land of Ever-Plaisance, whither he 
said he was going. And one day, when the 
sun shone very bright, and the full fair gar- 
den joyed in the music of those birds, Mas- 
ter Sweetheart did not come, and they 
missed the little lame boy and wondered 
where he was. And as he never came 
again they thought at last that of a surety 
he had departed into that country whereof 



1 84 MISTRESS MERCILESS. 

he loved to tell Which thing filled our 
little Mistress Merciless with wonder and 
inquiry; and I think she was lonely ever 
after that, — lonely for Master Sweetheart. 

I am thinking now of her and of him ; for 
this is the Christmas season, — the time 
when it is most meet to think of the children 
and other sweet and holy things. There 
is snow everywhere, snow and cold. The 
garden is desolate and voiceless : the flowers 
are gone, the trees are ghosts, the birds have 
departed. It is winter out there, and it is 
winter, too, in this heart of mine. Yet in 
this Christmas season I think of them, and 
it pleaseth me — God forbid that I offend 
with much speaking — it pleaseth me to tell 
of the little things they did and loved. And 
you shall understand it all if, perchance, 
this sacred Christmas time a little Mistress 
Merciless of your own, or a little Master 
Sweetheart, clingeth to your knee and sancti- 
fieth your hearthstone. 

When of an evening all the joy of day was 
done, would our little Mistress Merciless 



MISTRESS MERCILESS, 185 

fall aweary; and then her eyelids would 
grow exceeding heavy and her little tired 
hands were fain to fold. At such a time it 
was my wont to beguile her weariness with 
little tales of faery, or with the gentle play 
that sleepy children like. Much was her 
fancy taken with what I told her of the 
train that every night whirleth away to 
Shut-Eye Town, bearing unto that beauteous 
country sleepy little girls and boys. Nor 
would she be content until I told her there- 
of, — yes, every night whilst I robed her in 
her cap and gown would she demand of me 
that tale of Shut-Eye Town, and the won- 
derful train that was to bear her thither. 
Then would I say in this wise : — 

At Bedtime-ville there is a train of cars that 
waiteth for you, my sweet, — for you and for 
other little ones that would go to quiet, slum- 
brous Shut-Eye Town. 

But make no haste; there is room for all. 
Each hath a tiny car that is snug and warm, 
and when the train starteth each car swingeth 
soothingly this way and that way, this way and 
that way, through all the journey of the night. 



186 MISTRESS MERCILESS. 

Your little gown is white and soft ; your little 
cap will hold those pretty curls so fast that they 
cannot get away. Here is a curl that peepeth 
out to see what is going to happen. Hush, 
little curl ! make no noise ; we will let you peep 
out at the wonderful sights, but you must not 
tell the others about it ; let them sleep, snuggled 
close together. 

The locomotive is ready to start. Can you 
not hear it ? 

"Shug-chug! Shug-chug! Shug-chug ! " That 
is what the locomotive is saying, all to itself. 
It knoweth how pleasant a journey it is about 
to make. 

" Shug-chug ! Shug-chug ! Shug-chug ! " 

Oh, many a time hath it proudly swept over 
prairie and hill, over river and plain, through 
sleeping gardens and drowsy cities, swiftly and 
quietly, bearing the little ones to the far, pleasant 
valley where lieth Shut-Eye Town. 

" Shug-chug ! Shug-chug ! Shug-chug ! " 

So sayeth the locomotive to itself at the 
station in Bedtime-ville ; for it knoweth how 
fair and far a journey is before it. 

Then a bell soundeth. Surely my little one 
heareth the bell ! 

" Ting-long ! Ting-a-long ! Ting-long ! " 



MISTRESS MERCILESS. 187 

So soundeth the bell, and it seemeth to invite 
you to sleep and dreams. 

" Ting-long ! Ting-a-long ! Ting-long ! " 

How sweetly ringeth and calleth that bell. 

" To sleep — to dreams, O little lambs !" it 
seemeth to call. " Nestle down close, fold your 
hands, and shut your dear eyes ! We are off 
and away to Shut-Eye Town ! Ting-long ! 
Ting-a-long ! Ting-long ! To sleep — to dreams, 
O little cosset lambs ! " 

And now the conductor calleth out in turn. 
" All aboard ! " he calleth, " All aboard for Shut- 
Eye Town ! " he calleth in a kindly tone. 

But, hark ye, dear-my-soul, make thou no 
haste ; there is room for all. Here is a cosey 
little car for you. How like your cradle it is, 
for it is snug and warm, and it rocketh this way 
and that way, this way and that way, all night 
long, and its pillows caress you tenderly. So 
step into the pretty nest, and in it speed to Shut- 
Eye Town. 

" Toot ! Toot ! " 

That is the whistle. It soundeth twice, but 
it must sound again before the train can start. 
Now you have nestled down, and your dear 
hands are folded ; let your two eyes be folded, 
too, my sweet ; for in a moment you shall be 



1 88 MISTRESS MERCILESS. 

rocked away, and away, away into the golden 
mists of Balow! 

"Ting-long! Ting-a-long! Ting-long!" 

" All aboard ! " 

" Toot ! Toot ! Toot ! " 

And so my little golden apple is off and away 
for Shut-Eye Town ! 

Slowly moveth the train, yet faster by degrees. 
Your hands are folded, my beloved, and your 
dear eyes they are closed ; and yet you see the 
beauteous sights that skirt the journey through 
the mists of Balow. And it is rockaway, rock- 
away, rockaway, that your speeding cradle goes, 
— rockaway, rockaway, rockaway, through the 
golden glories that lie in the path that leadeth 
to Shut-Eye Town. 

"Toot! Toot!" 

So crieth the whistle, and it is " down-brakes," 
for here we are at Ginkville, and every little one 
knoweth that pleasant waking place, where 
mother with her gentle hands holdeth the 
gracious cup to her sleepy darling's lips. 

" Ting-long ! Ting-a-long ! Ting-long ! " and 
off is the train again. And swifter and swifter 
it speedeth, — oh, I am sure no other train 
speedeth half so swiftly ! The sights my dear 
one sees ! I cannot tell of them — one must 



MISTRESS MERCILESS. 189 

see those beauteous sights to know how wonder- 
ful they are ! 

" Shug-chug ! Shug-chug ! Shug-chug ! " 
On and on and on the locomotive proudly 
whirleth the train. 

" Ting-long! Ting-a-long! Ting-long!" 
The bell calleth anon, but fainter and ever- 
more fainter ; and fainter and fainter groweth 
that other calling — " Toot ! Toot! Toot!" — 
till finally I know that in that Shut-Eye Town 
afar my dear one dreameth the dreams of 
Balow. 

This was the bedtime tale which I was 
wont to tell our little Mistress Merciless, and 
at its end I looked upon her face to see it 
calm and beautiful in sleep. 

Then was I wont to kneel beside her little 
bed and fold my two hands, — thus, — and 
let my heart call to the host invisible : " O 
guardian angels of this little child, hold her 
in thy keeping from all the perils of dark- 
ness and the night ! O sovereign Shepherd, 
cherish Thy little lamb and mine, and, Holy 
Mother, fold her to thy bosom and thy love ! 



190 MISTRESS MERCILESS. 

But give her back to me, — when morning 
cometh, restore ye unto me my little one ! " 

But once she came not back. She had 
spoken much of Master Sweetheart and of 
that land of Ever-Plaisance whither he had 
gone. And she was not af eared to make 
the journey alone ; so once upon a time when 
our little Mistress Merciless bade us good- 
by, and went away forever, we knew that it 
were better so ; for she was lonely here, and 
without her that far-distant country whither 
she journeyed were not content. Though 
our hearts were like to break for love of her, 
we knew that it were better so. 

The tale is told, for it were not seemly to 
speak all the things that are in one's heart 
when one hath to say of a much-beloved 
child whose life here hath been shortened so 
that, in God's wisdom and kindness, her life 
shall be longer in that garden that bloometh 
far away. 

About me are scattered the toys she loved, 
and the doll Beautiful hath come down all 
battered and grim, — yet, oh ! so very pre- 



MISTRESS MERCILESS. 191 

cious to me, from those distant years ; yon- 
der fareth the Queen of Sheba in her service 
as handmaiden unto me and mine, — gaunt 
and doleful-eyed, yet stanch and sturdy as of 
old. The garden lieth under the Christmas 
snow, — the garden where ghosts of trees 
wave their arms and moan over the graves of 
flowers ; the once gracious arbor is crippled 
now with the infirmities of age, the Siege of 
Restfulness fast sinketh into decay, and 
long, oh! long ago did that bird Joyous 
carol forth his last sweet song in the garden 
that was once so passing fair. 

And amid it all, — this heartache and the 
loneliness which the years have brought, — 
cometh my Christmas gift to-day : the solace 
of a vision of that country whither she — 
our little Mistress Merciless — hath gone ; 
a glimpse of that far-off land of Ever- 
Plaisance. 



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